Beautiful Lies
by missaleatoire
Summary: House's journey through Mayfield and recovery, divided into two parts. House/Cuddy/Wilson
1. Chapter 1

**Beautiful Lies**

_So after the finale, I was kind of pissed. How dare the writers do this to me, I lamented. How dare they take away my Huddy. But in the morning, I decided that I rather liked the way they're taking this. I've always been fascinated with madness. So this is going to be what happens to House at Mayfield, it's a mixture of reality and fantasy and House can't distinguish which is which. However, I can promise you eventual Huddy because it's me, although after last night's episode I am convinced that David Shore is not going to let Huddy happen until like the end of the series. Anyhoo, I hope you like this!_

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

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**Ch. 1**

It has been a week since House was admitted into Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. He had been scared shitless in the beginning, but now he has sort of come to terms with it. At least there was someone to keep him company.

He laid on his cot, with his hands folded behind his head, staring up at the grimy, mildewed ceiling. This Bedlam has probably been the same since the days they still drilled holes in patients' heads to let the evil spirits out.

"Well this isn't so bad," Amber said, lounging on a chair. "You get a Vicodin every couple of hours. Regular meals and laundry service, no less." Her tone was mocking.

House picked up a medical journal and ignored her. He was so used to her now, that it was scary.

"It's been a week," Amber said. "And they still haven't come to see you. Think they forgot you?"

House sighed. He missed his piano. He missed his guitar. He missed his apartment. He missed his medical mysteries. He missed--

"A shame, isn't it?" Her voice was filled with glee and cruelty. "That you hallucinated the whole thing with Cuddy. You'd've really liked it if it happened, wouldn't you have?"

House gritted his teeth.

"If it had all been real. And if she said she'd move in with you instead of firing you and bursting your little delusional bubble. Pathetic how much you need her, really."

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to block out her voice.

"Pity she'd only sleep with you in your hallucinations. Pity she'd only hold your hand and admit her feelings—"

"SHUT UP!" House roared, throwing the medical journal at Amber. It only passed through her, as she cackled.

"Face it, House—you've gone insane. You'll never solve another case. You'll never see her again." Her laughter echoed in the dingy little room, until House wanted rip his eyes out, wanted to shoot himself, wanted to do anything for her to disappear, for him to escape from this hell.

"Dr. House," the door opened, and the intendant stepped in. They still called him by his title, as if being a doctor meant that he had some kind of control over his condition. It was a horrible mockery, and reminded him every time that he might never be a doctor again. The intendant held out a little paper cup with a single Vicodin in it.

House glared at it. "I don't want it," he said.

"Dr. House—" The intendant began in a soothing voice.

"Listen," House said. "I want you to take this away, and never bring it to me again, no matter how much I begged you for it, do you understand? No matter how I bribe you or insult you or try to manipulate you. Please," he choked this last word out with difficulty. He would do _anything_ to be normal again.

"I'll have to consult your psychiatrist," the intendant said uncertainly.

"Oh for fuck's sake," House snapped. "What is there to consult? I'm a drug addict. Aren't you supposed to encourage me to kick my drug habit?"

"With your current mental state, a cold-turkey approach might not be—"

"No!" House cried. "A cold-turkey approach is the only thing that's going to work. I _know,_ all right? I've tried it all before." _And I would have quit already if Cuddy had just—_

He willed himself not to think about it.

"If Cuddy didn't walk away?" Amber helpfully finished for him. "But then, you shouldn't have insulted her, should you? She had a perfect right to go home and take care of her baby. _She's not your keeper._"

"Please," he repeated.

"All right," the intendant said. "I'm bringing this away for now. I'll go consult your doctor and you will be carefully monitored." He left with the paper cup.

House slumped back on his bed. He braced himself for the inevitable pain, nausea, and uncontrollable shivering that were going to happen within a few hours. But this time, he'd embrace it. He'd willingly give up another leg if it meant he could go back to the hospital, to his life.

"I never knew how attached you were to your life," Amber said in mock-surprise. "Weren't you the one always complaining and griping and insisting on being miserable—"

House smiled at her grimly. "Mock all you want. You are going to be gone soon."

"How do you know?" Amber said confidently. "How do you know that, even if you were to succeed in detoxing—which I highly doubt, by the way—that I would go away? How do you know that it's the Vicodin's fault, and there's nothing wrong with you mentally?"

It chilled him, how cock-sure she was. But he had to keep telling himself that once he detoxed, it would all be okay. His mind—and therefore, his life—depended on it.

--

But after a few minutes, he sat up again. How _did_ he know? How did he know he said what he'd just said to the intendant? Maybe he actually did take the Vicodin, and his mind was just concocting another little story to make him feel better about himself. That was just it. He had no way of knowing.

_Come on, House, _ he said to himself. _You're still a genius, you can figure this one out. _This wasn't the first time this had happened to him. He was also hallucinating after Moriarty shot him years ago. Then, he had broken out of the hallucination by "murdering" a patient.

The problem was, _then_ he had been hallucinating the whole time, so he didn't really kill the patient. Now, his hallucinations and reality were all mixed up, and if he killed someone it might actually be real and then he'd be in deeper shit than he was now. How to tell the difference?

He settled back into his pillow and began to think.

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**Please please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Beautiful Lies**

**Ch. 2**

_Merci beaucoup for the wonderful reviews! _

_Good news: I updated fast (you may thank the end of AP exams)! (Potentially) bad news: I don't really like this chapter, it's more a filler than anything...but I hope it clarifies some things. Things'll get a lot more interesting next chapter, I promise!_

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House decided that all he could do was to wait. If he detoxed within a day and then Cuddy came to pick him up and professed her undying love, then it was all a hallucination. But if the detox took a week—as he knew it should—then it would have to be real, wouldn't it?

"'Course!" Amber said perkily. "I mean, sure your brain made up detoxing once, it wouldn't do that _again_ for a longer period of time."

_Damn._ House thought. He needed someone to control him. But how could he make sure that someone was not a figment of his imagination?

"Dr. House," the door opened again. House looked up. It was his psychiatrist. "How are you doing?"

"I'm just wonderful, thanks," House said sarcastically. Just because he was now a mental patient, didn't mean that he would act like one.

The psychiatrist walked towards Amber's chair. House gleefully anticipated him sitting on top of her. Unfortunately, she disappeared as the old man sat down. "I understand that you wish to quit Vicodin."

"Yes," House said shortly.

"And you are aware—"

"If you insist on calling me _Doctor, _could you treat me like one?" House snapped. "I am fully aware of whatever crap that is associated with detoxing from an opiate substance. Do I need to sign a _form_?"

"Relax, Dr. House," the psychiatrist chuckled. He wasn't easily annoyed, which was annoying. "I just want to talk to you. You are familiar, of course, with the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders and its five axes?"

House nodded. He wasn't trained in psychiatry, but back in med school all students had to do a Psych rotation and they'd covered the DSM-IV.

"Of the first four axes, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said, peering at him seriously under his Freudian glasses, "You fall under three. You have clinical syndromes—hallucination, and possibly mild depression. You might also have brain damage sustained from the bus crash you were in a year ago, and the deep brain stimulation you underwent soon after. And one of your colleagues had committed suicide, which is negatively psychosocially…"

House was getting bored of the old man droning on. And he didn't want to think about Kutner, who mercifully had not appeared again since last week. "Is there a point to your Psychology lesson?" he cut in.

"My point is, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said, "your condition is complicated and rooted in many causes. The good news is, your global assessment is moderately high. You are functional, rational, not a danger to yourself or others—"

"Not yet anyway," Amber giggled, suddenly appearing behind him.

"So basically," House said, "as soon as my hallucinations stop, I'll be fine."

"Well—"

"Yes or no?" House asked impatiently.

"Essentially, yes."

"Which is why I want to detox from Vicodin!" House exclaimed. He still couldn't forget the relief and joy he felt when he had detoxed and realized Amber was gone. Sure, it had turned out to be a hallucination, but he could make it happen in real life, right?

"We could start off small, and gradually reduce—"

"No, no," House said. Any amount of medication in his body might still feed Amber. Besides, if a pinch woke someone from a dream, good old leg pain would surely snap him out of his delusions. "Cold turkey."

"Fine, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said, standing up. "If you're certain—"

"I'm certain."

"Then we will take steps to ensure that your detox will be successful. However, the reason I came was to warn you that simply stopping Vicodin might not relieve your symptoms."

"I know," House said. But it was just like solving one of his cases; he had to do a test to try whatever options he had. Funny how just two weeks ago, he'd rather have MS or schizophrenia then detoxed. Now he wanted to be Vicodin-free about all else. It had become like a monster to him. He still couldn't shake off the horror he had felt when he realized Cuddy's lipstick was really a little orange bottle.

"In that case, I wish you luck," said the psychiatrist, and left.

--

"Now, was that real?" Amber said. House looked back and saw her lying on his bed. When he didn't answer, she taunted, "you don't know, do you? You can't—"

"There is a way," House said, looking at her grimly. Her eyes widened as she read his mind.

"No way," She said incredulously, sitting up. "You want to cut your corpus callosum? You know that only works for seizures, right?"

"No, not to get rid of my hallucinations," House said. "If I became a split-brain patient, then my right brain could have a chance to express itself. It would know when my left brain is making things up." The idea had just popped into his mind as he thought about the patient he had. His _last_ patient. The last patient he might ever--No. He wouldn't think about that.

Amber stared at him for a minute. He noted with satisfaction the fear in her eyes. It meant that it might actually work.

She sank back down again onto the bed. "That's radical, even for you."

"Yeah, well," he smiled humorlessly, rubbing his stubble. "I am supposed to be insane, after all."

"They'll never agree to it," Amber said smugly, her confidence back. "Cuddy and Wilson. And you can't make the decision yourself, because you are legally incapacitated!" She almost sang.

"They will," House said. "if there was no other option. My cognitive ability wouldn't be affected by a split-brain surgery. I could go back to work."

"Yeah, with a freaky alien hand," Amber muttered.

"It can be a party trick," House shrugged.

"You do know it's for life?"

"Which is why it's a last resort," House said, looking at her. "Meanwhile, I'm going to detox."

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_Please review! =D_


	3. Chapter 3

**Beautiful Lies**

_Thank you so much for the reviews! They make me write that much faster (well, that, and the fact I no longer have classes). Enjoy this chapter--it's detox time!_

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**Ch. 3**

It had begun with just an increased throb of pain in his leg, when the scheduled time for his pill had come and gone. Just a little warning for him to get some Vicodin into his system. He could almost ignore it if he tried hard enough. The trick was not to think about it.

He cursed himself for not seeing the blatant clues that told him he was hallucinating. It wasn't possible to detox in one night. It made no sense for a single stray pill to lie on his bathroom floor. And how could he have expected Lisa Cuddy to leave her baby overnight? But he was too caught up in the glorious fantasy of it to notice.

"There are more clues you missed, you know," Amber said lazily. "Like that mosquito."

House stared at her, horror dawning.

"Wilson even told you, remember? '_House, you're a drug addict. You're _always_ imagining things.'_ But you dismissed it out of hand. The great Gregory House couldn't be seeing bugs like a meth addict on the street."

House stood up abruptly. He couldn't take this anymore; he had to get out. But his leg collapsed under him and he crashed onto the floor.

Painfully, he hoisted himself up with his elbow. Looking up, he could see Amber towering above him, laughing.

"Did you think that I was the first time?" she mocked. "For someone who prides himself on his perceptiveness, you really are blind."

But House wasn't listening. His mind had sped ahead, going over the times where he felt 'off'. "When I crashed my bike—" He began hoarsely.

"It wasn't a real car coming towards you, was it? You thought you saw lights, you swerved off the road to avoid it---"

"No," he moaned. _This can't be happening, this can't…_

--

_An Hour Later_

He didn't know how, but he had managed to drag himself back on to the bed, and now laid there, teeth chattering and shivering. The pain had become full blown, like someone trying to saw his leg off with a very rusty saw. There was a primal urge in him, craving with every fibre of his being for Vicodin.

He wanted to throw up. He tried to walk the few steps to the small adjoining bathroom, but he couldn't put any weight on his bad leg. He braced himself, and fell onto the floor, letting his upper torso take most of the weight. His leg screamed even more (if such a thing was possible…but apparently it was), so that he actually saw black spots dancing in his vision.

After they cleared, he began to drag himself slowly, and painfully, towards the bathroom. If he had been in his apartment, or anywhere else for that matter, he would've caved and looked for Vicodin a long time ago. But he knew that there was none here. And he had expressly wished for the intendants to stay away from his room for the first while, so he wouldn't be tempted to lie and cheat his way to a pill.

Amber was still there, but she was silent now, watching him like a bird of prey.

_This can't be a hallucination, _House thought. _I don't think that it hurt this much in my fake detox. This is real, it's really happening._ And that was what gave him a little hope, even though at the moment he would've traded anything for a Vicodin.

--

"Thirty-year old patient—" Cuddy walked into the diagnostics room, holding a file.

"What happened to House?" Taub interrupted. "The last I saw of him was when he handed that guy with pancreatic cancer off to me, telling me to take him to Radiology. He hasn't been in for a week. _What happened_?"

Cuddy faltered, looking around to the rest of the team for help, but Thirteen and Foreman just looked back at her in askance. They wanted answers too.

Cuddy sighed, and rubbed her face tiredly. She hasn't slept well this whole week. She kept seeing House's haunted, broken face, and eyes filled with pain—his panicked words, _I'm not okay…_

She had to tell them eventually. They would find out. They had worked under House for long enough to catch his spirit of getting the answers at all costs.

"Dr. House," she began. Then stopped. Oh god, she couldn't do this. She was going to cry, and it was not good form for the Dean of Medicine to burst into tears in front of her employees.

The hospital rumor mill has been almost burning down with excitement all week. First, Dr. House had announced to the world that he had slept with her, and now he's gone mysteriously missing… Some people thought she had murdered him and dumped his body in a river, yet others thought she had kidnapped him and was holding him as a sex slave…all of which Cuddy would've found amusing had she not known the real, horrible truth.

"Cuddy," Foreman stood up, concern in his voice.

"I'm all right," she said, more aggressively than she'd meant to. Foreman sat down again. She took a breath. Well, out with it. "House…has been admitted to Mayfield."

She couldn't utter the words, _psychiatric hospital_, but she didn't need to. Audible gasps were heard from the team.

She allowed them a minute.

"Thirty year old patient, nausea, sudden loss of vision…" she began again. She had a job to do.

--

Wilson entered Cuddy's office. Every time he looked at her, he saw House's glowing face, so unused to happiness, and his heart broke. House had thought he'd slept with Cuddy, and he didn't run. He had wanted to make it work. And Wilson was so ready to believe, that he'd conveniently overlooked the fact that it was impossible to detox in one day. After all, if House didn't see a problem with it…

This was hard on Wilson. He already had a brother in a mental institution. And now his best friend was in there too. Sometimes he wondered if there was something about him that drove every one around him insane. Or maybe he just liked to surround himself with insane people. Either way, something was wrong with him.

"Yes?" Cuddy looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and she had put on more makeup than usual. Yet her face was calm, and her eyes were…almost dead-looking.

"They just phoned me," Wilson said. He didn't need to clarify who _they _were. "House has decided to detox."

"Oh," Cuddy said softly. Wilson could see some emotion—what, he couldn't say—flit over her face for one brief second. Maybe she was imagining the pain he would be in. Maybe she felt guilty that she didn't stay and helped him detox and made his fantasy a reality. Maybe then she told herself not to be stupid, she couldn't have left Rachel for House. Whatever it was, it was gone within a blink of an eye, and her face was set once more. "Thanks for telling me, Wilson."

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_Huddyness forthcoming next chapter! Meanwhile...review please!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Beautiful Lies**

_Aww thanks guys!! I love your reviews. Hope you enjoy this chapter!_

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_Ch. 4_

It had been three days. Sometime during the first night of detox, House lost all sense of time and place. All that existed in the universe was pain. Agony that rode in waves throughout his body, agony that made him wonder if Stacey and Cuddy hadn't been right in the first place to want to cut his limb off.

Somewhere in his consciousness he registered people coming in at intervals, depositing food in front of him, food that he didn't touch. How could you eat when you wanted to hurl your stomach up every minute? When all you taste in your mouth was bitterness?

There was nobody to offer him hot ginger. Nobody to hold his hand.

_Why is it this bad?_ He wondered. The last time he'd detoxed, during the whole business with Tritter, he'd still been able to solve cases even at his worst. Now pain had misted his brain so much that he doubted he could recite the alphabet. He'd once described his pain as soul-sucking. Now it was beyond even that, it had gotten to the point that he'd begun to crave a gun to end his misery almost as much as he craved Vicodin.

_Psychosomatic._ The word floated into his black abyss, curiously enough sounding like Cuddy's voice. Of course. Cuddy had known. Hadn't she, years ago, when his pain was almost as bad as this, given him a placebo instead of the morphine he'd demanded? His pain was at least partially in his mind. And this—deprivation—of everything he loved in life was making it worse. He didn't have a case to occupy his mind, no music, no Cuddy.

_I want her._

All his defenses were gone. He couldn't pretend anymore.

_No, I _need_ her. To be here. To take the pain away. _

--

At some point, the door opened. House didn't look up, assuming it was just the intendant again. Until a voice spoke.

"House," it said softly.

He jerked his head up. He couldn't believe his eyes. Cuddy was standing in the doorway, her eyes filled with uncertainty.

"Hi," he managed.

She advanced. She was wearing jeans and one of his favorite shirts—one that, despite all his claims to the contrary, didn't have a particularly low cleavage—it clung to her curves favorably, and made her skin look luminous. She looked beautiful. When hadn't she looked beautiful?

She sat down beside him. She looked sad.

"Are you real?" he asked. _Stupid question,_ he reprimanded himself immediately. _She'd answer yes either way._

She looked even more pained at his question. "Yes," she said. She took his hand. She felt real. But then, she'd felt real before. "How are you?"

"Fine," he said. "Dandy. I was thinking of running a marathon later."

She raised a hand, and gently stroke the sweat from his forehead. He thought he'd test her.

"Would you sleep with me?" he asked bluntly.

Her lips curved upward. "Right now, or ever?"

"Right now looks good," he said.

Her smile broadened. "Then no."

"Ever?"

She didn't reply, but lowered her eyes slyly.

He sighed. "I wish I knew."

"Knew what?"

"If you're really here."

She stared into his eyes, and smiled sadly. "I guess you don't."

She planted a gentle kiss on his cheek, and stood up. Then he knew he'd hallucinated the whole thing.

She left.

--

"Cuddy," Wilson said urgently, bursting into her office. He has been doing this a lot lately, almost as much as a certain Diagnostician used to.

She raised her head expectantly. House has been detoxing for three days now. She desperately hoped that once he was clean, his problems would be gone. And he could come back to challenge and banter with her and normalcy could return to her life.

Now that Wilson made his dramatic entrance, he seemed at a bit of a loss as to what to say. House always knew what to say. Even at the times when he didn't say anything.

_Stop thinking about House._

_Hah. As if._

"What, Wilson?" She managed to sound annoyed, as though he was disrupting her in the middle of something more important. As though she wasn't waiting every minute of every day for his updates.

"House's…detox is going well," Wilson hedged. Cuddy's heart dropped to somewhere level with her foot. Wilson would never beat around the bush if it were good news.

"But…?"

"But he's still hallucinating."

The information hit her like a ton of bricks. She had all her hopes banked on the detox, that the Vicodin was the cause of everything and once he quit, he'd be okay. The fact that he was still hallucinating meant that the problem was deeper…perhaps irreversible.

_Irreversible._ Could there be a more terrifying word in the whole of English language? Irreversible meant that she'd lost her best doctor. It meant that she'd lost a friend, a soulmate…a lover, even if they hadn't slept together in twenty years. Irreversible meant he might as well be dead. It meant forever. No going back. Irreversible was what she had fought all her life, the reason she became a doctor.

"Cuddy?" Wilson said concernedly, after she'd been sitting speechless at her desk for a full minute.

She gathered herself as best she could. "Anything else?" She tried to say it dispassionately, but her voice cracked, betraying her.

"His pain…is getting worse. Than ever before. The psychiatrist says it's because he's been deprived of anything familiar in his environment. He wants someone to visit him."

"But…he's advised against that before," she stammered. She didn't know if she was capable of seeing House.

"Yes, because he didn't want anything to fuel House's delusions," Wilson said. Cuddy blinked. Wilson's whole demeanor had changed—he was slipping into cancer-patient mode! The whole let's-try-all-of-our-options-and-pretend-your-world-isn't-falling-apart thing. She knew it was unconscious, that Wilson couldn't help it. But she couldn't bear that he was doing this to _her_.

"Now he thinks it would be better for House if he had something to distract him, take his mind off his pain," Wilson finished.

Cuddy nodded. The psychiatrist's priorities had changed. He wasn't concerned with House's hallucinations anymore, because it looked like it was going to become a long-term thing. "I can't," she stated flatly. If she did, she might very well lose her own mind and end up in the hospital with him.

And the problem was, _that_ option sounded appealing.

"I know," Wilson said hesitantly. "He might think he was hallucinating you anyway. I was thinking…someone who House knows he wouldn't hallucinate, someone who could occupy him with cases."

"Who?" Cuddy asked curiously.

Wilson allowed a small smile. "Taub."

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_Things look up next chapter as our favorite plastic surgeon comes to House's rescue! Ahaha. As always, keep those reviews coming! _


	5. Chapter 5

**Beautiful Lies**

_Thank you for the reviews! I rather like this chapter--I hope you do too._

**

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**Ch. 5**

"I told you so," Amber said in a sing-song voice.

House had his eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched. His nails were dug into his palm so that they actually pierced the skin, and blood trickled down his wrist. Unfortunately, the pain from _that _was nowhere enough to distract him from the pain in his leg. His breath came out in ragged gasps.

Despite all of this, his head was getting clearer. Yes, he had hallucinated Cuddy. Yes, Amber was still here. But the withdrawal symptoms were almost entirely gone. He didn't want to throw up, and he'd stopped shivering. All that was left was pain.

And House had begun to even feel a tiny bit proud of himself. It had been degrading for a man like him to be so dependent on the little white pills. That had been the reason he'd tried methadone before. Now, he was clean. He wasn't an addict anymore. He had even managed to eat something after three days of near fasting. He felt that he could conquer anything, including his hallucinations, if only the pain would _stop._

"Hello, House," a voice said awkwardly from the door.

House raised his head. "You?" He asked incredulously. "Why would I be hallucinating _you_ of all people?"

Taub, looking short and bald as ever, stood in a pair of black pants and a grey shirt. "You're not," he said, waving a file. "I have a case for you."

"Do I look like I'm in a state to solve cases?" House groused, but his hand was already outstretched for the file. God, he had missed his medical puzzles. "Besides," he mumbled absentmindedly while browsing through it. "I was fired."

"I'm pretty sure you're not," Taub said, sitting down in Amber's chair.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Amber asked. "Who sent him?"

House ignored her. _Nausea, vision loss, liver failure…_

"They probably already solved the case," Amber pressed. "Which means he's only here to entertain you. They don't trust you with real cases. That's kind of insulting, don't you think?"

House looked up at Taub, who was sitting very upright in the chair, his eyes alighting on the mold and stains with obvious distaste. "What was the diagnosis?" House asked in an even tone.

"We didn't come up with one," Taub said.

House's eyes narrowed. "It's gotten to liver failure, and you still haven't solved it? Either you're lying or she's already dead."

Taub looked uncomfortable. "She died this morning," he finally said.

House stared at him. "I was gone for one week, and you already let a patient die?" he asked. "Good lord. Why did I hire you again?"

"We tried everything," Taub said. "She deteriorated too fast—"

"_Everything_ isn't good enough!" House yelled. He could picture them saying that to him one day—_We tried everything, but nothing worked. You're stuck in this loony bin for the rest of your life. Sorry. _He tried to calm down. It wasn't helping his pain. "Did you do an autopsy?"

"The husband wouldn't consent," Taub mumbled.

"You'd think they've worked for us long enough to know to force consent," huffed Amber. "Especially when they let the patient die undiagnosed."

House sighed. "Leave the file here."

Taub nodded, and stood up. "Oh, I forgot," he said, reaching into his bag, "I brought you these. Thought you'd be bored." He held out House's iPod and Gameboy.

House took them. "Good move. I might rethink firing your ass."

"I'll come back," Taub told him.

"Before the patient dies next time," House said.

Taub turned to leave.

"Thanks," House called grudgingly.

Taub turned, smiled a little, and nodded. Then he left.

House settled back, popping iPod buds in his ears and turning up Jimi Hendrix. He opened the file. His pain was receding a little already.

--

"House was pissed off," Taub said, once back in the diagnostics room.

"Figured he would be," Thirteen said. "How could've we let that happen? Are we that dependent on House—we can't solve a single case without him?"

"It happens," Foreman said. "We did everything we could—"

"No!" Taub said, louder than he had meant to. Foreman turned to look at him, astonished. Taub took a breath. "House didn't seem to find that a good enough answer," he said.

"Because it isn't," Thirteen said, looking at Foreman reproachfully. "We shouldn't have let the patient die undiagnosed."

"Oh, _undiagnosed,_" Foreman scoffed. "But it's okay if she dies, as long as it's with a diagnosis. You are getting as bad as House."

"House," Thirteen said coldly, standing up, "doesn't let patients die. You think you're as much of a genius as he is, don't you? _House, only nicer_. But as I recall, it was _your _treatment that made her worse. So don't talk to me about having done _everything_ _you could._" She stormed out of the room. She knew what it was like to be dying and helpless to do anything about it.

Foreman looked at Taub, who only raised his eyebrows at him. He sighed, and ran out after Thirteen. "Remy!"

Taub was left alone in the room. He stood up. He was going to get that autopsy.

--

Cuddy was trying not to panic. The team's patient had died that morning. She fervently hoped that this wasn't going to become a trend. If she could still enlist House's help, she would. But they didn't allow personal phones at Mayfield—there was no way House could contact them if he had an epiphany.

She couldn't believe how much this hospital needed House. He was gone for a bit more than a week, and everything was falling apart.

Taub had gone to the psychiatric hospital with the file. House'll probably solve it within hours, even in his mentally unstable state. But it was already too late. They had lost a life simply because their best doctor was unavailable. This was unacceptable.

_That's it. No more moping around,_ Cuddy decided, a familiar sense of determination taking over, the same sort of determination that enabled her to become the first-ever female Dean of Medicine. She wasn't going to let any personal crap impede her any longer. The hospital needed House better. She needed House better.

She picked up the phone and dialed Mayfield.

* * *

_Haha. Please review! =)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Beautiful Lies**

_Love your reviews, as always!_

* * *

**Ch. 6**

The psychiatrist entered House's room to find him on his bed, playing Gameboy with the volume obnoxiously loud. "You're not allowed that here," he said mildly.

House glanced up at him. "What are you going to do about it?"

The psychiatrist sighed. He'd learnt since practically Day 1 that House was not going to be like other patients. The man was too smart, too arrogant, and in too much pain, both mentally and physically…not a good combination. "Could you at least turn it off while I talk to you?" he asked, sitting down.

House seemed to consider this for a moment, before reluctantly switching his game off. "Yes, Siggy?" he said, making an exaggerated show of paying attention.

"Siggy?" the psychiatrist looked at him.

"_Sigmund,_ Dr. Freud," House said, waving a hand around. "Whatever you prefer to be called. How are you going to psychoanalyze me today?"

"I don't take the Freudian approach, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said patiently. "However, I must ask—since you managed to get a Gameboy snuck in—did you receive anything else from outside?"

"Like what? Vicodin?" House raised an eyebrow.

"Yes."

House looked at him significantly for a moment, until the psychiatrist had really started to believe House was back on Vicodin. Then House sighed and said, "No. Taub doesn't love me that much."

The psychiatrist breathed in relief. House seemed to be telling the truth; besides, he was breathing much too shallowly to be pain-free. He decided to change the subject. "Dr. Cuddy phoned me yesterday."

A curious expression flitted over House's face —longing? Sadness?—for the briefest moment before he resumed a mask of indifference. "And what did Dr. Bigass want?"

The psychiatrist had a pretty good idea that this Dr. Cuddy was responsible for at least part of House's mental anguish. "The MRIs we took of your brain the day you were admitted."

House had gotten special permission to look at the MRIs, since he was a doctor. Also because he had whined and needled until the psychiatrist gave in. "There's nothing on the MRIs. What does Cuddy think she's going to find, a big glowing area with an arrow pointing to it, _House's problem here?"_

"Dr. Cuddy is trying to help," the psychiatrist pointed out gently. He knew House had looked at the MRIs for hours himself, desperately hoping to find an answer, frustrated when it wasn't that simple.

"If she'd wanted to help—" House stopped himself. He winced and grabbed his leg, a sign that his pain indeed hadn't gotten any better.

"Are you still hallucinating?" the psychiatrist asked softly.

House's eyes flicked to the left. "Yes," he said shortly.

"Of, ah, Amber?" Dr. Wilson had told him about Amber, how House believed that he was responsible for her death. That man was screwed up in so many ways.

"Yes."

"Just her?"

A pause. "Yes."

"Not just her," the psychiatrist stated. House was lying.

"Are you sure your name isn't Sigmund?" House snapped. "Are we done?"

"If you like," the psychiatrist stood up. "Till next time, Dr. House."

--

"You told a fib!" Amber teased when the psychiatrist left.

House didn't answer. He couldn't tell the psychiatrist that he'd hallucinated Cuddy again last night. That she'd curled up next to him in bed and wrapped her arms around him and whispered that everything was going to be okay. That her hair had tickled his cheek and smelt like flowers. That he knew perfectly well it was a delusion, yet he didn't want her to leave.

"Aww, how cute," Amber said. "Hallucination-Cuddy is better than no Cuddy, right?"

"At least when she's here, you're not," House retorted. "_Hallucination-Cuddy_ beats Hallucination-Amber any day."

"Ouch," Amber said sarcastically. "I'd feel jealous if I was real. And, you know, if she was too."

"Shut up," House growled. He knew it was pathetic. But what could he do? His brain was obviously coming up with creative ways to deal with the pain. And as long as he could tell it was a hallucination, and didn't bank any real emotion in it, it was harmless, right? Just another, more solid, form of a fantasy.

"Yeah, right," Amber said. "Harmless, just like when you trusted my judgment and nearly killed Chase."

House turned his Gameboy back on, trying to drown Amber and his pain out.

--

"Give it up, Cuddy," Wilson said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It was almost eight o' clock, and they'd been looking at House's MRIs for hours. "There's nothing abnormal with House's brain. Except a bigger prefrontal cortex that makes him the genius he is."

Cuddy wasn't about to give up. "But look at the fMRI's. The anterior cingulate cortex is lit up. So is the limbic system. And these areas…"

Wilson sighed, and moved his finger across each of the areas in question. "The anterior cingulate cortex is responding to the pain. The amygdala is active, means that he was scared. More activity in his right prefrontal cortex signals negative emotions, and can you blame him? _These_ areas there are associated with hallucination. It's telling us nothing we don't already know."

Cuddy slumped back into her chair. "You're right. I just wish I'd find an answer…"

Wilson went over and put an arm around her. "I'll bet anything House's looked at these MRIs already. If there were anything to find, he'd be the first to find it. C'mon, let's get you something to eat."

They drove to the nearest diner.

"The psychiatrist," Wilson started hesitantly over burgers and fries, "thinks that the hallucinations are a consequence of the deep-brain stimulation he did a year ago." He looked guilty.

_As you should be,_ Cuddy thought savagely. _House did the electrical stimulation for you._ But she knew it was unfair. Wilson had been losing someone he'd loved; he couldn't be blamed for trying everything to save her. But what came out of it? Amber had still died. And the outfall from it was making _her_ lose someone she loved.

_Do I love House?_ She asked herself, astonished at her own thoughts. _I always knew I wanted him, but love--?_

"He thinks that the synapses are misfiring," Wilson continued timidly, unsure of Cuddy's reaction. "And combined with his use of Vicodin, are causing the hallucinations. He thinks House's brain needs a reboot."

Cuddy snapped out of it. "Like an induced coma?"

Wilson nodded.

Cuddy considered it. "But we tried ketamine before."

"And it worked, didn't it?"

"Not for long."

"Maybe not for the pain. But for the hallucinations…"

"They may come back."

"Or they might not."

Cuddy pictured House, pain-free, addiction-free, hallucination-free. House, just like she'd known him in college, before all the angst.

_Yeah, right,_ the more skeptical part of her brain snorted. She'd pictured the exact same thing during the ketamine treatment. She'd pictured it so many times. She knew it was never going to happen. As House was fond of saying, _People don't change…_the least of all him.

"I need to talk to him," she said.

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "You?"

"Yes," she said.

"You realize that he'll think…" Wilson didn't need to finish that sentence.

"I don't care if he thinks he's hallucinating me," Cuddy said. "As long as he gives me an answer."

* * *

_I love my Psych course. _

_Actual Huddy scene next chapter! Please review!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Beautiful Lies**

_YAY over 110 reviews! Thanks SO much everyone for supporting this story. You make my day.

* * *

_

**Ch. 7**

"Neurosarcoidosis," House announced as Taub came into the room. "Am I right?"

Taub nodded. He should be surprised, but he really wasn't. "I did an autopsy."

"You wouldn't have needed an autopsy if you'd done a _brain biopsy_."

Taub looked down. "A biopsy was too dangerous—"

House smiled humorlessly. "And you would've had to face Big Bad Cuddy to ask permission. Better play it safe, do tests for everything else first. Who cares if it explains the vision loss, the nausea from vertiginous sensations--"

"Yeah. We were cowards, all right?" Taub interrupted. "I get it. Next time we'll be more reckless and whatever…"

"Did you come for anything else, or just to prove me right—again?" House asked.

"Actually, I came to say…" Taub stood aside as a figure came through the door. "Cuddy's here."

"_Whoa_." House said. "Whoa, whoa, wait. She," he pointed at a slightly stunned Cuddy, "can't be here. But _you_," he pointed to Taub, "acknowledged her presence. Which means _you_ can't be here, either." He put his finger down. "Damn. I thought I was actually right."

Cuddy stood there, awkward and uncomfortable. She'd thought of having Taub announce her so House would know that he wasn't hallucinating. But apparently, House was completely set on her being a figment of his imagination. She nodded at Taub. "Can you please give us a minute?"

Taub left with alacrity.

Cuddy studied House, with a poignant pang in her heart. House's stubble had grown out to a straggly, grey-streaked beard. His eyes were red-rimmed, he was breathing shallowly, and his face was marked with exhaustion. He looked like hell.

"Hey Cuddy," House said cheerfully. Cuddy was sure he'd behave differently if he thought she was real.

"Oh, House," she said softly, coming to sit beside him on the bed. She bit her lips. She had been so full of purpose in coming here. Now she didn't know what to say. She looked into House's normally intense eyes, now a faded blue, worn by pain and sleeplessness.

House looked at her expectantly. When she still didn't say anything, he began, "Do you have anything to say, or—"

"We think we know what's causing your hallucinations," Cuddy blurted out.

House grinned. "This is so cool. My hallucination's telling me what's causing my hallucinations."

Cuddy closed her eyes. She couldn't bear that he didn't believe that she was real. "House. What can I do to convince you that I'm really here?"

House thought. "You could do a striptease," he suggested.

Cuddy smiled. He hadn't changed. "I doubt that would work."

"No," House said, studying her face closely. The intent light was coming back to his eyes. "My hallucinations never do what I want. If you strip, then it'd prove I have some control over them. Maybe I can make Amber do cartwheels next..."

Cuddy didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry.

"But you were saying?" House said, seeming to break out of his scrutinizing.

"Well," Cuddy tried to gather herself. "We think that the deep-brain stimulation you did last year, combined with your Vicodin abuse, caused your hallucinations."

House mulled this over. "Makes sense. Vicodin's never caused hallucinations before the DBS. And it would explain why they hadn't gone away after I detoxed." He smiled. "I'm a genius."

He still thought that she was a hallucination! She guessed she couldn't blame him. "We want to induce a coma to reboot your brain," she said, trying to stay on task.

"Like the ketamine treatment," House said, nodding slowly.

"I know it didn't work for long, but—" Cuddy rushed.

House held up a hand to stop her. "Cuddy," he said seriously. "I would do anything to make this stop." He reached out to gently brush his thumb across her cheekbones, down the side of her face, lost in his own thoughts.

Maybe she wanted to prove to him that she was real. Maybe she wanted to do something, anything, to make his pain a little bit better. Whatever the reason was, she leaned in and kissed him.

She had meant for it to be gentle and quick. But his arm had suddenly come around her and crushed her to him. He devoured her mouth hungrily, and she responded in kind. He tasted bitter, and his lips were chapped, but he felt so good, so right.

He suddenly broke away and stared at her with a sort of horror. "I can't," he breathed. "I can't do this again."

"House—" she said. She had no idea how she was going to finish that sentence.

His screwed up his face for a moment as he thought. "Cuddy," he said finally. "This is going to sound really stupid, but on the off chance you _are_ real," he whispered, "Because you feel so real right now…"

"House, I _am _real," Cuddy said desperately.

"Then you should know that I have," he sucked in a breath, "_experienced_ many things. Involving you. Most of it wholly a figment of my impaired brain." He looked down and avoided her eyes. "I don't know where we're at in our real life relationship anymore, I--"

"House," she said earnestly, forcing him to look at her. "It's all right. We'll get you through this, and then we can figure out...whatever it is that we have." The realization that he really did want a relationship with her was overwhelming. "Anyways," she smiled in an attempt to lighten the mood, "The hospital is falling apart without you."

He smiled a little. "Of course. I'm your hospital's biggest asset." Then he shivered, as if recalling something unpleasant. He drew away.

Cuddy stood up. She swallowed. "I'll inform your psychiatrist to arrange a chemically-induced coma," she said quickly.

"That's what they all say," House sighed as she left.

--

Cuddy tried to get her breathing back to normal as she came back into the car where Wilson was waiting for her.

"How was your brother?" she asked nonchalantly, watching Taub walk back to his own car.

"Good," Wilson said in an equally non-committal tone. "How was House?"

"As well as can be expected," she said.

Wilson started the engine. Cuddy turned to him and opened her mouth. "Is there a reason why you won't see him?" she demanded.

"Cuddy," Wilson said in a warning tone, keeping his eyes on the road. "I don't want to discuss this right now."

"You sent him to the hospital," she continued. "You keep posted on his progress daily. But you haven't visited him."

"_You_'d only visited him for the first time today!" Wilson countered.

"You visited your brother—but you won't go see _him_. Why?"

"Do you have any idea how much you sound like House right now?" Wilson said.

"Well I'm starting to sympathize with him, the way you're deflecting!" Cuddy exclaimed.

Wilson took a breath. "Look. After the induced coma, House'll be back to normal—or as normal as he'll ever be, anyway. There's no point talking about this."

Cuddy was quiet for a while. Then she said, "He's not your brother, Wilson."

"I know he isn't," Wilson said.

"He'll never turn into your brother."

"I know."

"But I don't think you believe it," Cuddy said quietly.

Wilson sighed. "No, I don't." Then he muttered under his breath, "you and House are _so _made for each other."

* * *

_The Huddy scene was really hard to write. Please review!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Beautiful Lies**

_Thanks for the reviews! This is a slightly shorter chapter, mainly because I wanted to have the pre-coma House for one more chapter. There is a long-awaited House/Wilson scene for those who want it. Enjoy!_

* * *

**Ch. 8**

"Not investing any emotions, huh?" Amber said. "_That _worked."

House buried his head in his hands. His mind was in turmoil, and his leg was killing him. He had kissed Cuddy. Again. No, not Cuddy. The hallucination of her.

House had begun to believe, at the time when she kissed him, that she was really there. But now the more he thought about it, the more surreal and unlikely it seemed. _The only time I could be sure I kissed her was…after she'd lost Joy. Last November._

In real life, nothing had changed since then. But these damn hallucinations had made him, House, normally so guarded and with fortified walls to rival that of Berlin, open and…vulnerable.

"Is it any wonder you got hurt?" Amber said softly. "You opened up and she laughed at you. Maybe the walls were there for a reason."

"Dr. House?" the psychiatrist said. "We're ready for you now."

"Ready?" House asked.

"For your induced coma."

House sucked in a breath. _It was real?_ His spirits rose in spite of himself.

The psychiatrist wheeled a wheelchair in front of him. House stood up shakily, gritting his teeth, and settled himself in it. _I can't wait til I get my cane back_, he thought.

--

"What do you mean, I can't visit him?" Wilson said loudly. After what Cuddy said yesterday, he'd finally decided, like the sucker he was, that to visit House before he went into his coma was the right thing to do. He was prepared to see House looking deranged, depressed, who knows. He wasn't prepared to not see him at all.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson," said the intendant. "Dr. House cannot distinguish between reality and hallucination right now, and too many visitors put a strain on him."

"But it's me!" Wilson said. "I'm his best friend!"

"_Because_ you're close to him, Dr. Wilson," said the infuriatingly calm intendant. "It would be very easy for him to hallucinate you. And therefore your presence would disturb him when he can't decide."

"But Cuddy went," Wilson exclaimed, rather more childishly than he meant to.

"Yes, and it's already affecting him," the intendant said. "I'm sorry. You can see him after he wakes from the coma."

"I want to see Dr. Forbes." Wilson demanded.

The intendant sighed. "He's prepping Dr. House for the coma."

"Page him," Wilson said, irritated. He could be as persistent as House when he wanted to be.

--

House was wheeled down winding corridors until he got into a room, reminiscent of the ones at Princeton-Plainsboro. He was helped into the bed. "How long am I going to be comatose?" he asked.

"About a day," the psychiatrist told him, as nurses bustled around him, hooking him up to various machines for monitoring.

House looked at Amber, who was now standing solemn and pale beside the bed, and couldn't help a faint smile. _No Amber. No pain. Bring it on!_

The psychiatrist's pager went off. "Hold on," he told House, and left the room.

_Hold on?_ House thought, annoyed. _Something's more important than putting me in a coma? _He screwed up his eyes, trying to block out the pain. _Just a few more minutes…_

The psychiatrist soon came back. "Can Dr. Wilson come in?" he asked House.

_Wilson's here?_ "If he must," he said.

Wilson came in, looking sheepish. "Hi House."

"Hi Wilson," House waved in a falsely-cheery manner. "Look, I'm going to be just like Coma Guy."

"Your dream come true," Wilson's lips twitched. "I would keep you company when I eat lunch, but I don't think they allow it here."

"They don't allow it at Princeton-Plainsboro either," said House. "That's never stopped me before."

"Do you still see Amber?" Wilson asked wistfully.

House glanced at the said dead girlfriend, who was keeping silent. "Yeah." He looked at Wilson. "Trust me, you do not want to see her. She is an even bigger cutthroat bitch when she's a part of my subconscious."

"Yeah, well," Wilson sighed. "Anyone would be."

"How's your brother?" House asked.

"He's fine," Wilson said. "He's in the next wing."

"Funny how I'd end up here in the same place as him," House mused in a low voice.

"Yes, life is funny that way," Wilson agreed.

A corner of House's mouth lifted slightly. The two exchanged small, rueful smiles.

"Dr. Wilson, I'm going to have to ask you to leave now," the psychiatrist said, not unkindly.

Wilson nodded.

"Bye Wilson," House said.

"Bye House," Wilson said. "See you on the other side."

--

The psychiatrist injected something into House's IV tube. "One minute," he told him.

House settled back. This reminded him of the time when Stacy and Cuddy put him under, in order to cut the dead muscle out of his leg. Of course he'd been angry when he woke up. He'd stayed angry for all these years. When on occasion he managed to get past the iron shell she'd developed and made Cuddy cry, he'd feel a strange mixture of vindictiveness and guilt. But recently…maybe it was sometime around last November…the anger that had been familiar for so long had gone, had been replaced by…something else.

He fixed his eyes on Amber, and watched her fade.

* * *

_Now I have a question for you, my readers! Do you want scenes of what happens in House's mind during the coma? Or is the white-room/flashbacks thing too overdone and I should just start with House waking up? Please review and tell me what you think._


	9. Chapter 9

**Beautiful Lies**

_Thanks SO much guys for the input! It was extremely helpful. I hope you like what I've decided to do. I'm extremely pleased with it and I think it brings closure to the whole thing.

* * *

_

**Ch. 9**

"So," Wilson said.

"So," Cuddy said.

"Tomorrow, eh?"

"Yeah."

"I hope the coma works." Wilson voiced the hope they both clung to as a last lifeline.

Cuddy took a deep breath. "So do I."

When Wilson left, Cuddy sat in her office, trying to do work. But her mind cannot get off what House had confessed to her, two days ago.

House wanted to be with her. A part of Cuddy wanted to dance around her office and sing "I Feel Pretty" à la _West Side Story_. But the more rational part of her sobered her by pointing out the many problems a relationship with House presented.

Rachel, for one. When Cuddy had tried to get House to see that _he_ wanted a relationship, it had been _before_ she adopted Rachel. Now, she was not free. She was a mother. She could not leave everything whenever House needed her.

Also, would this work out even without the complication of Rachel? House had problems with relationships. To be fair, so did she. One was not single at the age of forty without a good reason. They had been at each others' throats for so long, and built up so much sexual tension. Would they be at a loss if the tension was gone? Would they be…nice to each other?

Cuddy shook her head. She couldn't picture that. No, they would scream and yell at each other as much as usual. They would probably break up within a week.

It was impossible to work with her mind in such a turmoil. She grabbed her coat and purse and headed home.

--

Cuddy rocked Rachel on the couch. It was past midnight. The girl had been especially fussy tonight, and Cuddy had finally managed to make her quiet down. Rachel was now sucking on her pacifier, her eyelids drifting open and closed dreamily.

"Is it between you and House, then?" Cuddy said softly, looking down at her. "Do I have to choose?"

"Not much of a choice, really," she continued. "It's not like I can give you back. And I don't _want_ to give you back," she added fiercely.

She hesitated. "But I don't want to give him up, either," she admitted.

"Why do I have to choose?" she said, a little while later. "Why can't I have both? He'll _have _to accept you, if he wants me, and that's that."

Rachel had fallen asleep, the pacifier dangling out of her mouth with a thread of drool hanging down. Cuddy gently removed it from her mouth and set it aside.

"It can work out," she said, yawning.

She ended up falling asleep on the couch with Rachel in her arms, dreams of a happy family dancing in her head, dreams all the more heartbreaking upon awakening, because they are so far removed from reality.

--

_It had come full circle. He was back on the bus. Amber was sitting beside him._

_"I went into a coma to get rid of you," he said, without antipathy. _

_Amber looked at him, her green eyes no longer cruel, no longer taunting. It wasn't the Amber of his subconscious. This was Amber as she had been in life, the Amber Wilson had loved, the Amber who had come to pick House up at the bar._

_"I know," she said. "I'm saying goodbye."_

_"Goodbye," he repeated. He looked around the bus and sighed. "No pain again." Excruciating pain had been his life for the past week. He didn't want to go back to that again, especially without the relief of Vicodin this time. He wanted to stay here. Painless. Warm. _

_"You're needed," Amber said quietly. _

_"I'll have to die sometime," House said. "I can only save so many patients."_

_"You know that's not what I meant," Amber said, with a flash of her old annoyance._

_"Cuddy has her baby. Wilson…will find another wife," House said. "No offense to you," he added._

_She snorted. "You need them, too," she pointed out._

_He knew that was true. "I'll just screw it up. With Cuddy."_

_"How do you know?" Amber said. "You haven't tried."_

_House was silent._

_"That day. Did you really tell Cuddy that you were hallucinating?" Amber said. "No. Did you really tell her that you needed her? No. You haven't actually done anything. Why should you expect anything from not trying?"_

_"I should've hired you," House said._

_Amber laughed. "Go home, House."_

_He stood up. Oh, how easy it was to stand up here. "Really goodbye, this time?" He said, raising an eyebrow._

_Amber smiled. "Goodbye for good."_

_As he moved to the front door of the bus, he heard her say, "Good luck, House."_

_--_

"Welcome back, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said.

House blinked in the light. "Urgh," he said groggily, sitting up. "You're like a bad dream. Only, you know, worse, because I see you _after_ I wake up."

"Glad to see your keen sense of wit hasn't been affected," the psychiatrist chuckled. "How do you feel?"

House looked around. He didn't see Amber, and somehow he knew that he was never going to see her again. "I don't know. Good, I guess."

"And your pain?"

House blinked. His pain wasn't gone, no. But it was a dull ache instead of the piercing agony of the past days, something he could easily manage. "Much better," he said in surprise. "What did you slip me?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing, Dr. House," the psychiatrist said, looking elated. "Your brain has rebooted itself. It's over its opoid dependency and your pain levels should be at where it is supposed to be now. The hallucinations are gone too, I gather?"

House nodded. "Does that mean I can leave?" His spirits rose infinitely at the thought of his own apartment, his beautiful piano, _cable_.

"We'll need to keep you for a couple of days for monitoring," the psychiatrist said.

"What?!" House exclaimed. "No! I feel completely fine. You can monitor me at home or something. I am _so_ gone," he moved to get up from the bed.

"It's just for two days," the psychiatrist said soothingly. "You get more privileges now that you have recovered. You can go anywhere you like on the hospital grounds. We'll even give you a TV in your room."

House considered. "I get my cane back," he stated.

"Of course," said the psychiatrist.

"Fine," House said.

* * *

_Yay! =)_

_ Just a heads-up...the next chapter will be the last in Part 1. There will be a Part 2 dealing with recovery and hopefully lots of Huddy goodness...please review and tell me your thoughts!_


	10. Chapter 10

**Beautiful Lies**

_Hey guys! Here's the last chapter of Part 1 and it's longer (yaaay!). And by the way, I was watching Stuart Little on TV the other day. It just proved to me that Hugh Laurie can be hot whatever form he assumes. It's a real gift, I think ;)_

* * *

**Ch. 10**

House turned off the TV in his room. The psychiatrist hospital evidently did not have cable, and there was only so much to watch on 10 channels. He felt better than he had for ages. He'd shaved and showered properly for the first time since the detox. He had no idea how he looked, since they didn't have a mirror in the personal bathrooms. But the important thing was, he felt completely himself again.

In fact, he was _bored_. How nice it felt to be bored. No hallucinations taunting you, no mind-numbing pain. Life was almost too normal, too banal.

He grabbed his cane, running a hand down the smooth oak. "Welcome back, Little little Greg," he murmured, grinning.

He rose to head out the room, easily ignoring the slight pain in his leg. The door was unlocked. He looked up and down the corridors, and smiled wickedly. This was going to be fun.

--

"House is getting discharged tomorrow," Wilson said. He looked glowing, Cuddy noted. Better than he'd looked for the past two weeks since House had been admitted into Mayfield.

"How is he?" she tried to ask casually.

"Wonderful," Wilson exulted. "His hallucinations are completely gone, his pain is at a manageable level—he might not even need painkillers for it. He is addiction-free…"

"In other words, he's almost a normal human being," Cuddy said, smiling.

"Yeah," Wilson said. His face fell for a bit. "How long do you think it'll last?"

Cuddy leaned back in her chair. "I don't know," she said. "But I'm glad it happened."

"And he talked to me on the phone!" Wilson sat down, looking like an excited little boy. As if House hadn't talked to him just the day before.

"What did he say?" Cuddy said, interested.

"Uh…he said, 'Now I don't have to have the split-brain surgery.'" Wilson looked a little puzzled. "I don't think the psychiatrist ever mentioned it as an option."

"No," Cuddy said knowingly. "That kind of insane idea can only be House's own." She felt a little cold when she thought about it. That kind of drastic measure only told how desperate House had been. _But it's fine now,_ she told herself. _That is all past. _

"So," Wilson said. "Who is picking him up?"

Cuddy looked down. She'd love to see the recovered House, but she didn't know how he would behave upon encountering her as a non-hallucination (to his mind) for the first time. She didn't know how _she'_d behave. "I think you should," she said.

"Are you sure?" Wilson asked.

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Yes."

--

House happily roamed the grounds of the psychiatric hospital. Technically, his meanderings were supposed to be confined to the gardens, but here he was, poking his head into corridors of the patient wards.

He saw an intendant walking down the corridor with a cart. He neatly sidestepped into a supply closet to avoid her. If she saw him, she'd assume he was some crazy patient let loose (and she wouldn't be too far from the truth), and would take him back to his cell.

House's wanderings, while seemingly random, were not without a purpose. He was trying to find a familiar room, one he'd been in before.

He waited for the intendant's footsteps to disappear, and set off again.

Finally, he found himself in the room, one with a vending machine, chairs, a ceiling fan, and a fine layer of dust over all. For a moment, he closed his eyes and saw the drive up to Mayfield, New York from Princeton with Wilson. Two separate times. The first time he'd come to visit a crazy person. The second time he'd _been_ the crazy person. The drive took four hours. Four hours was a long time to stay silent.

He tried the handle of the adjoining room. It was locked, which didn't surprise him. He frowned. He'd never gotten around to accepting Wilson's offer of meeting his brother.

He walked to the vending machine and felt around his pockets before remembering that he'd had to empty them at the time of admission. Deep in thought, he set off for his room. It was almost dinnertime.

--

The next day was the long-awaited discharge day. House had to do a final session with the psychiatrist.

"Dr. House," the psychiatrist said seriously, after going through the preliminary checkup, "I must advise you still to be careful. Your brain may have recovered successfully, but the emotional trauma you have sustained due to recent events—"

"Thanks for reminding me," House said sarcastically. "I really would've preferred to forget them—you know, them being emotionally traumatic and all."

"Dr. House," the psychiatrist chuckled, "and you accuse me of being Freudian. You know as well as I do that the more traumatic a memory is, the harder it is to repress it. You may still experience nightmares—"

"I slept fine last night," House interrupted.

"And the pain in your leg may still increase," the psychiatrist said, ignoring him. "The important thing is to abstain from alcohol and drugs, both recreational and pharmaceutical. And you should attempt to participate in more social settings, form stable relationships with more people…"

"Yeah, sounds like me," House muttered.

"You must try," the psychiatrist said, stern for once. "I am very serious, Dr. House. Consider what happened a warning bell. If you continue on the self-destructive route you have been on thus far, there might be no recovery come your next breakdown. You may have weaned off Vicodin now, but you _will_ feel temptation the moment your pain gets worse. Therefore it is essential that you have a healthy frame of mind and a strong support group when this happens. You _must _start changing your lifestyle."

House was very glad when an intendant came to inform them that Dr. Wilson had arrived.

"I have told Dr. Wilson, as well as Dr. Cuddy, to keep an eye on you," the psychiatrist said as House stood up to leave.

"What'll have changed?" House said dryly.

"Go easy on them," the psychiatrist, standing up as well. "Your friends are doing everything they can." He extended a hand to him, which House took to shake after a moment. "Good luck, Dr. House."

--

"Hi," House said.

"Hi," Wilson said.

They stood facing each other awkwardly for a moment. House rolled his eyes. "You're going to hug me, aren't you."

Wilson nodded. House suffered his embrace for a brief second before stepping back.

Wilson coughed. "I'm, uh, glad you're alright," he said quickly, turning towards his car. Bright summer sunshine beamed upon them, a direct contrast to the dark blustery day when he was admitted.

"Me too," House said honestly. He followed him, suitcase in hand, his heart a million times lighter.

--

"How's Cuddy?" House asked quietly during the car ride.

"She's good," Wilson said. "She'll be happy to see you back at work."

"She has to un-fire me first," House reminded him.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Impossible as always," he commented. He had no idea how House was going to act towards Cuddy now, after the fiasco that resulted from the hallucination. One thing was for sure, though: Wilson vowed never to play matchmaker again. House'll have to figure this one out for himself.

"We swept your apartment, by the way," Wilson said. "Cuddy and I. Took all your Vicodin, including the one in your shoe in the closet. You sure pick creative hiding spots."

House nodded, as a stab of pain shot through his leg, as if mourning the loss of Vicodin. He sure hoped Wilson and Cuddy had really gotten every last bottle, because he wouldn't be able to help himself if he did find one. As pathetic as it sounded, House knew the first thing he was going to do when he got home was to check all his hiding-spots. He sighed.

To distract himself from thoughts of Vicodin, he thought of Cuddy. Their encounter in the psychiatric hospital was a little fuzzy, mainly due to the fact that he'd thought that she was a hallucination at the time. He still couldn't be sure that she'd meant what she'd said.

"Did you leave me my scotch, at least?" House said.

Wilson chuckled at the memory. "Cuddy poured it down the drain."

"Devil woman," House muttered.

"She knows you'll just buy more." Wilson turned serious and looked at House. "But we're hoping you wouldn't."

House thought of the endless lonely nights that stretched ahead, with no refuge of alcohol or Vicodin. Nights that made the TV sound hollow and weak against the crushing emptiness. Nights that even his music didn't seem able to entirely fill. How the hell was he going to survive that?

"No promises," he said gloomily. There was a silence.

"Oh, and a pipe burst in your apartment," Wilson said off-handedly. "Flooded the place. Your piano's probably still floating."

House turned sharply towards Wilson. "That is _not_ funny," he stated as Wilson burst into laughter. "You do not joke about the piano."

But he smiled slightly.

"You're going to be okay, House," Wilson said quietly.

* * *

**End part 1.**

_I watched the end of the finale again to make sure I have details right, and it depressed me all over again. It's like...no matter what I write, in the canon House is still stuck in that gloomy gothic hellhole. Gaaad I want season six right now._

_Thanks SO much everyone for supporting this story! Part 2 may not be for a while, because I want to take a little hiatus from writing. However, who knows? I probably won't be able to stay away for long. Leave a review! I do love them so dearly =)_


	11. Physician, Heal Thyself

**Beautiful Lies Part 2**

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

_Hey guys I'm baaaack! Welcome to Part 2 of Beautiful Lies, entitled Physician, Heal Thyself. Happy Birthday Hugh Laurie!!!!

* * *

_

"House," Wilson said over the phone, puzzled. "Why haven't you come to work yet?"

"Still fired," House said through a mouthful of chips, eyes fixed on the TV, hand stuck in the jumbo bag of Lays. He was in his sweatpants and a t-shirt, feet propped up on the coffee table.

"House—" Wilson started to say, exasperated.

"Cuddy," House swallowed exaggeratedly, "will have to come and _tell_ me I'm unfired before I go back. We can't have some _unemployed_ person off the street show up and start doing differentials! What will the world come to?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. House was back being a stubborn ass. It was pointless to argue with him. "Fine," he said curtly. "I'll tell Cuddy. But you're acting like a child, and I'm not sure she'll indulge your sulking."

"She'd better, if she doesn't want patients to keep dying on her," House said, clicking off the phone, and resolutely stuffed another handful of chips in his mouth.

Wilson sighed, and dialed Cuddy's extension.

"Yes?" Cuddy said absentmindedly, perusing a file.

"House still isn't back yet," Wilson said.

"That would explain why he hasn't burst in my office asking permission for some crazy treatment," Cuddy said, tucking the phone between her shoulder and her cheek to scrawl her signature on something.

"He says he's still fired."

Cuddy stopped. "He knows he isn't."

"Yeah, I know. He's milking the thing. He wants you to go over and personally rehire him."

Cuddy laughed. "Haha. Right. He wants me in his apartment."

Wilson was about to say, "Well maybe you should go," before stopping and remembering that he was to dabble no more in matchmaking. So he stayed silent.

"Thanks, Wilson," Cuddy said, not noticing his pause. "I'll handle it." She hung up, and dialed House's home number.

"Hello," House said.

"House, get back to work now," Cuddy said.

"Who is this?" House asked.

Cuddy huffed a sigh of exasperation. "I don't have time for your games, House—"

"I'm sorry?" House said, sounding genuinely confused.

Cuddy was slightly taken aback. Did he really not recognize her voice?

"Look, whoever this is," House said, "I am recovering from an intensive treatment and my memory is a little off right now. Frequent lapses and everything. So if you could just tell me who you are…"

Cuddy's eyes narrowed. House sounded much too sincere. And he must have been expecting her phone call after talking to Wilson. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, as sincere as he was, "this is…" she cast her glance around the room for inspiration and alighting upon a gift from a donor, "Turkish Delights Escort Service. We're sorry but your regular order has had to be cancelled due to a problem with…gonorrhea."

She heard a strangled silence from the other end, as though House was trying to suppress laughter.

"Ah yes," he said, after a while, "and the tone you were taking with me earlier, that was – the phone sex compensation, I take it?" She could just imagine him with his eyebrows raised.

"Yes," Cuddy said, nodding. "To make it up to you. Because you are such a _loyal_ customer," she said, putting extra emphasis on the word _loyal._

"The Boss Lady package," he suggested, amusement evident in his tone.

"That's right," Cuddy said, leaning back in her chair, a devious smile playing on her lips.

"Well, then," House said. "I'm ready."

"Dr. House," Cuddy said, in her best seductive voice (and she swore that she could hear House gulp), "if you do not come in before noon, I promise you I will make sure that your ass is dragged into clinic and you will stuck swabbing crotches until you rot."

"Hey!" House yelped. "Clinic is _not_ sexy! You clearly don't know what you're doing, woman."

Cuddy laughed. "I expect you in my office in twenty minutes, House." She hung up, a triumphant smile on her face.

Cuddy had suspected that House would be awkward around her, after what happened three weeks ago. This was her way of making sure that everything returned to normal as quickly as possible.

--

"Next time, I expect better service," House said by way of introduction as he limped into her office.

Cuddy smiled, and handed him a file. "Fifteen year old patient with facial swelling and respiratory difficulty _and_ it's not an allergy."

House nodded, leafing through the file. She studied him carefully: this was the first time she'd seen him since his coma. He was in his usual, slightly disheveled state of dress that she secretly found adorable. He appeared better rested since Kutner's death. He looked himself enough: but was he really back to normal? Were _they_ back to normal?

The ease they had over the phone was rapidly disappearing. Suddenly, the air was thick with tension. He looked up and met her eyes.

"House," she began.

In a rapid movement, House snatched the box of Turkish Delights from her desk. "Very creative," he said, raising an eyebrow, and turned to leave with the file and the box of sweets, popping one into his mouth into the process. "See ya, Cuddy," he said with his mouth full.

Cuddy sighed. Classic House deflection_. Oh well, can't blame him_, she thought, and went back to her files.

--

"I'm baaack," House announced to his ducklings.

"Why do you have a box of Turkish Delights?" Thirteen asked.

"Welcome-back present from Cuddy," House answered, tossing the package on the table. "To let me know how _delightful_ I am. Symptoms," he said, limping over to the whiteboard, but not before tossing a dark look towards Taub.

Taub swallowed. He knew this was going to happen. While all the fellows knew about House in the psychiatrist hospital, he was the only one who had gone to visit him. He saw House at his most vulnerable, and he was not sure that House was going to forgive him for that.

"Hyperthyroidism?" Foreman suggested. "The patient is irritable."

"Or _maybe_ the irritability is simply due to her being fifteen and having a swollen face," Thirteen shot back. "And it's nephrotic syndrome."

"Her urine was fine," Foreman retorted.

"_Whoa,"_ House said, throwing up his hands in mock-surprise. "A lover's spat, I see. Awesome. Maybe you can _actually_ break up this time."

"Irritability could also be a symptom of Cushing's," Foreman said, glaring darkly at Thirteen.

"Go test for Cushing's and hyperthyroidism," House said as the team stood up. "Not Taub. He has my clinic hours to cover."

Foreman and Thirteen left, absorbed in their mutual animosity. Taub hung back.

"You can't punish me—" He began.

House was already limping towards his office. He threw a backward glance at Taub. "Who said I'm _punishing_ you? Clinic hours are actually a sign of _favor_ in some cultures." He pretended to think about this for a second. "That must be why Cuddy gives me so many of them." With that, House closed his office door behind him and Taub was left with no choice but to go to the clinic.

* * *

_REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!! (so i know y'all are still reading this!) _


	12. Chapter 12

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

**Ch. 2**

It was five. Cuddy glanced up at the clock and then out the window. It being summer, the sun hasn't even begun to set yet. She stretched, and then thought she could eat dinner outside in the backyard with Rachel today. She smiled. It was nice to have somebody to go back home to and share the glorious summer evening with.

She began to gather her things when she paused. Something felt a little odd, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She thought about it for a moment.

_Today's House's first day back. _That's what it was. House was back, but nothing, except for his two-second conversation with her this morning, was different from when he was still at Mayfield.

Every day at five o'clock during that period, when she surfaced from her work and got ready to go home, she'd feel a pang of loss for a House-free day. If someone had told her that she would miss that bastard's troublemaking antics before, she would've laughed in that person's face. _Right,_ she'd say sarcastically,_ because I enjoy having my MRI machine broken every couple of days. _

Nevertheless, she would feel a painful spasm in her chest every day at five o'clock, like clockwork. And that was exactly what she felt today. Which was the odd part, because House was back. She shouldn't be feeling like this anymore.

It was then she knew that she had to talk to him before she left. Properly, this time.

--

House was lying back in his ergonomic chair, bouncing his ball against the wall. He briefly glanced up at the clock. Five o'clock. He wasn't going home anytime soon. What was there to go home to? He'd begun to increasingly dread his apartment. It was there his delusion with Cuddy had happened. Since then, it felt even emptier and lonelier than before—especially at night. He didn't want to go back to it until it was absolutely necessary, until he was so tired that he could go straight to bed and fall asleep instantly.

He didn't even have alcohol to help him sleep anymore. Actually, House had fully planned to go out and buy a bottle of scotch when he returned, the psychiatrist be damned. But somehow, he just never got around to it.

If Amber were here, he reflected dryly, she would tell him it's because of Cuddy. Which made him glad that Amber wasn't around anymore. Because it would be frightening if one woman had that much power over his actions.

"Speak of the devil," he said without turning his head, as Cuddy walked through the door.

Cuddy looked momentarily panicked. "Speak? Who are you speaking to?"

House couldn't help the smirk that stretched across his face. He nodded towards an empty space. "Abe Lincoln and I were just discussing the merits of your ass versus your rack. It's a close call."

Cuddy sighed in relief. "House. Don't joke about that."

"Missed me?" House asked, sitting up.

"'Course not," she replied without missing a beat. But she smiled.

He'd missed her smile.

Then she took a breath to speak.

_No,_ House's mind instinctively cried. Their banter was a familiar shield he could hide behind. He was not ready for real conversation. He was _not_ ready to discuss with her what had happened.

"How's your leg?" she asked hesitantly.

"Still hurts," he said shortly, pushing himself up and reaching for his cane. He had to get out of here as quickly as possible. "Wanna write me a Vicodin prescription?"

"House," she said disapprovingly. "If your pain is getting worse, you should--"

"Funny," he said. "I thought I said 'Vicodin prescription', not 'useless advice'_._" He walked past her to the door, trying to keep himself from smelling her familiar perfume.

"House," she called, and he stopped. She took a breath. "D'you—would you like to have dinner with Rachel and me tonight?"

"Sorry," he said. "The stripper bar doesn't allow babies."

"At my house," Cuddy said, rolling her eyes.

He looked at her. She was looking at him with beautiful, pleading eyes. His first instinct was to say no. Him, Gregory House, having dinner with a woman and her _baby?_ You can't get more domestic than that.

But then he remembered his empty, yawning apartment. He heard Wilson's voice, _you'll end up alone._ Maybe Amber was right, and it _was_ time he started trying.

He gave a curt nod. "'Kay." Then he walked out the door.

--

Cuddy was slightly stunned. She didn't really expect him to say yes. She certainly had not planned to ask him to dinner. All she knew was that he looked so sad and bereft that she could not leave him alone tonight. She could remember all too well what it was like to go back to an empty home. The whole time he was at Mayfield, she'd thought, _maybe if I had reached out to him earlier, he wouldn't end up like this. _

Now she didn't really know what to do. She had no meal planned. And he'd just walked out the door, after saying yes. She hurried out of his office. He'd already taken the elevator down.

She walked out to the parking lot, not seeing him. Feeling trepidatious and not a little confused, she got into her car and pulled out. She felt relieved when she got on the road and saw his motorcycle following her in her review mirror.

She frantically raked her mind for what she could serve House tonight. She saw a Chinese takeout place up ahead and almost pulled in. But that would be admitting defeat. She'd invited House to dinner and she would just have to give him dinner.

She had some pasta and tinned sauce in her pantry. That'll have to do, she supposed. There were some portabella mushrooms left in the crisper, and she had half a bottle of white wine. _It'll be fine_, she told herself.

Dear god, what did she get herself into?

--

In her driveway, House parked his bike beside her Lexus. He watched as she went up to the door and greeted the babysitter, cooing as she took Rachel from her arms. Suddenly, he regretted his decision. What had possessed him to agree to this? He did _not_ fit in this life. He wondered if it was not too late for him to turn around and get the hell out of there.

But Cuddy was looking at him expectantly, the baby in her arms. She would not let him wriggle out of this. He sighed, and got off his bike.

Cuddy put the baby in her padded playpen. "Could you watch her for a second while I get dinner started?" she asked in a tone that indicated that she wasn't really asking, and went into the kitchen before he had a chance to respond.

House stared at the baby, who was trying to eat its toes. "I think you got the order wrong," he said to it. "Baby is supposed to come _after_ mommy and daddy, not before."

He thought back to the day he encountered Cuddy and Wilson in the baby furniture store, when he found out she was adopting. _If you're happy, I'm—_

He had hoped, did everything he could so it wouldn't come to pass. But against all odds, it did. Here was reality kicking up at him. _You can't always get what you want._

A little hand stretched out for him, grabbing. Without thinking, he reached out to take it. It reminded him of something similar, once…

Then the hand pulled with surprising force. And then the baby sat up, gurgling happily at its accomplishment.

Cuddy came in at this moment. "Oh my god!" she cried and ran over to the pen. "You sat up! _Good girl!_" She was almost crying with joy as she lifted the baby up and cuddled it close to her.

"What is she, a dog?" House grumbled, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Cuddy looked at him with eyes shining with happiness. "She's over six months, and she hasn't sat up on her own yet," she said. "I know she's underdeveloped, and I was _so _worried that she had a disability with—with motor function or whatever. But you did it!" she cooed to the baby. "Mommy's so proud of you!"

"Great," House said, retreating to the couch. "Glad I could help."

Cuddy turned to him. "_Thank you,_" she said sincerely.

House studied her. He didn't remember the last time she looked so happy. Although it was because of the baby, he felt a slight warmth that he, too, formed a part of her joy. "You're welcome," he said quietly.

_But if you try sometimes, you might find...you get what you need._


	13. Chapter 13

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

**Ch. 3**

Cuddy managed to make dinner without incident. In fact, she felt a tiny glow of pleasure at the rich, aromatic sauce poured over the cooked pasta. She carried Rachel's high chair out to the patio furniture, and went back inside to warm Rachel's bottle. She took out two glasses, too, for her and House, and after a while hesitating, filled both up with water.

When everything was done, she went back into the living room. The TV was on, but she noticed that House's eyes were trained on the baby instead, who was now trying stuff a large wooden block into its mouth. "Dinner's done," she said quietly.

House turned his head abruptly at her voice, as if snapped out of a reverie. He nodded once and pushed himself up from the couch, while Cuddy went to get Rachel. As House left the room, she nuzzled her face to the baby's chest, and inhaled its unique smell of bathing powder and milk. It calmed her a little. "Here goes nothing," she muttered to Rachel.

House had carried the plates and cutlery out to the patio, in an uncharacteristic gesture of helpfulness. But then again, he appeared to feel as uncomfortable as she did, and was trying very hard to be on his best behavior.

Cuddy put Rachel in her chair, and gave her her bottle after testing the milk's temperature on her forearm. It felt like she was playing a part, Pretend Mommy, especially under House's unnerving gaze. She went and got the glasses. House eyed the water, his mouth twisting into an ironic half-smile, but he said nothing.

They began to eat in silence.

"This is good," House mumbled awkwardly, after a while.

"Thanks," she mumbled back, equally awkward. It occurred to her that this was as bad as any of the disastrous dates she'd been on.

The same thing appeared to be going through House's mind. "This seems like the sort of…thing I would come to break up," he commented. He covered his little pause well, but it did not escape Cuddy's attention that he avoided the word _date._ Who has a six-month old on their dates, anyway?

"Yes. You were a godsent on these occasions," she said in a tone that was half sarcastic and half genuine.

"I knew it," he said. "You always pretend to be angry but I knew you were happy to see me."

This small talk seemed so unnatural to them that they fell silent again. They finished eating in record time. Rachel was sucking contently on her bottle and being unusually good today. Cuddy almost wished she would fuss, just to break up the painful silence.

"How's your case?" Cuddy finally asked, taking a sip of her water.

"Treating for Cushing's," House said, laying down his fork. He did not seem enthusiastic.

"What, you don't think it's Cushing's?" Cuddy asked.

"No, that's obviously why I'm treating her for it," House snapped.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy set down her glass, narrowing her eyes at House.

"Are you training for Olympic long jump?" House asked. "Because the _leap_ you're making is enormous."

"You're deflecting. Something is up."

"I always deflect," House countered.

"You _always_ have something wrong with you," Cuddy shot back.

They stared at each other for a while, tension thick between them. Cuddy refused to back down. Finally House looked down. "Foreman came up with the idea," he mumbled under his breath, so that Cuddy almost didn't catch it.

She stared at him. "But your team always comes up with ideas. That's why you hired them."

"Yeah, but this time I had no idea of my own," House said, still not meeting her eyes. "Everything I thought of, they came up with."

"You don't think it's Cushing's," Cuddy said, this time as a statement, not a question.

"No," House said. "But I don't have a better diagnosis."

"You're panicking," Cuddy stated flatly. This got House's attention; he raised his blues to meet hers.

"You always have some last minute epiphany that cures the patient," Cuddy said. "But you're worried you can't this time. You're worried that you're losing your medical gift. So you're self-doubting, which basically amounts to sabotaging yourself even before you had a chance to be creative and have that epiphany."

"For a minute there, I could've sworn you turned into Wilson," House said. But Cuddy knew he was listening.

"House," she said gently, laying her hand on top of his. "Don't worry. Just stop obsessing, and the answer will come to you."

"Mm, Wilson's gone," House said, scrutinizing her. "Now you sound like Yoda. Have you considered acting as a career?"

She leaned back, feeling more at her ease now. "Actually, I _was_ in that theatre group back at Michigan."

House raised an eyebrow, interested. "How come I didn't know that?"

"I joined after you've left," she said, not telling him that she had to scramble for things to fill up the life that had suddenly become emptier without him there. She'd gotten good at that. Filling up her life. She filled it so much that she'd forgotten to leave a space for him. But she won't make that mistake again.

"So tell me," House said in a casual manner, "were you _really_ in that endocrinology class?"

She was surprised. "What? Of course I was. I sat next to you."

"Think very hard," House said, speaking slowly and piercing her with his blue eyes. "Were you _in_ my class, or were you perhaps, oh I don't know, auditing it?"

She thought back. "Oh yeah. I _was_ auditing it."

He looked thoughtful.

"Why?" she asked.

"No," House said. "The question is, why that class? Why the one I was in?"

She rolled her eyes. "Does it matter?"

He was still looking intently at her. "Yes."

"Fine," she sighed. "I wanted to see what an advanced endocrinology class was like, because _big surprise,_ I was interested in endocrinology. And I signed up for _your_ class because I saw your name on the roster, and I've heard about you around campus as some legend, and I was…curious." She felt heat creeping up her cheeks. _This is going to inflate his already oversized ego beyond belief,_ she thought.

But instead of looking smug, he looked like someone who's had their suspicions confirmed and was deeper in thought than ever.

"How did you know I was auditing your class?" she asked suspiciously.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," he muttered, almost to himself.

She narrowed her eyes. It was no good; he was getting wrapped up in the newest puzzle. She didn't know how he knew, but it did not matter very much to her. All she knew was, he needed to stop spinning his overworked and overtired brain, just for a little while.

She stood up and began to clear the table. When she returned to the patio, House was still sitting there, in thought.

She gathered up Rachel, who was blinking sleepily. "I'm going change and put her to bed," she said.

He nodded absentmindedly.

"Why don't you go and pick out a movie," she said with emphasis, and waited until, with a dramatic sigh, he stood up.

"Whatever you say, boss," he said, but with a slight twitch on his lips that might have been a smile.

--

House was lying back on the couch with _The Count of Monte Cristo_ on. This used to be one of House's preferred movies, but after Stacy left it just felt too close to his own life. Except, of course, House didn't have an island full of gold with which he could use to wreak revenge on his enemies. So he hadn't watched the movie in ages. But it was the only acceptable non-chick-flick in Cuddy's collection.

Cuddy came into the room, wearing sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and a light sweater-robe that tied in the front. She looked softer, warmer, especially in the dimmed light of the living room.

"Hey," she said, and sat next to him on the couch. "She's asleep."

"Good," he said, glancing at her sideways. He breathed in the scent of her soft curls, completely intoxicated by her. Then he quickly looked back at the screen.

They watched Edmond Dantes dragged before Villefort in court, to be falsely sentenced and imprisoned.

"This reminds of me of my own trial," House said.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Yes. Except you _weren't_ falsely accused. In fact, you _should've_ gone to jail if there had been any justice in the world."

He turned to her, a smile playing on his lips. "All the justice in the world isn't a match for Lisa Cuddy, Perjury Woman."

Cuddy looked at him. She could see the spark of desire and mischievousness and—well, _life_—dancing in the eyes that had so long been pools of black despair. In the dim light, the lines on his face are no longer harsh and weary. "You look better," she said softly.

"I feel better," he replied honestly.

She reached out a hand and gently brushed it down the side of his tired face, and brought it closer.

_I always want to kiss you._

This sentiment was uttered by neither of them, but it floated between them, clear as if spoken aloud.

Their lips met, enclosing the space between them, questioning and seeking.

This time, she wasn't in pain, and neither was he. This time, nobody was trying to comfort the other, but instead both seeking mutual companionship. This time, there were no pretenses, no misunderstandings, no chances of it being brushed off later as a mistake.

After what seemed like an eternity, they pulled apart. House grinned.

"So this is your evil plan, is it? Luring me into your lair under pretenses of food?"

She smiled widely, her heart suddenly lighter than it had been for months, perhaps years. She pulled his head back down to hers in response, one hand reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "Have I thanked you," she purred, "for helping Rachel today?"

As his hands untied her robe, House remembered that at the end of movie, the Count, after having his heart broken by Mercedes, had found another woman to entrust his heart to. That happy endings didn't always have to be the Hollywood kind. That second chances exist. That after loving once, it was always possible to love again.

--

Before they drifted off to sleep, Cuddy murmured drowsily, "Don't leave."

_If only you knew,_ House thought, stroking her hair, thinking back to his delusion, when Cuddy had been the one who left. But all he said was, "I won't."

* * *

_Sorry for the lack of smut, but I think it would detract from the overall meaning of them getting together...that, and I suck at writing smut haha. Please review!_

_P.S.: For those who have seen The Count of Monte Cristo, I made a tiny change. In the movie, the Count gets back with Mercedes, his former lover. But in the book (which is so much better than the movie anyway), the Count falls in love with another girl at the end. So I used the book version, which is more suited to the purposes of this story, more realistic, and moreover CANON as opposed to stupid Hollywood alterations. So there's my reasoning ;)_


	14. Chapter 14

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

**Ch. 4**

House's cellphone rang in the wee hours of the morning. House blindedly groped for it, and finally found it in his jeans pocket after the ringtone music has replayed for three or four times. "What?" he said groggily.

"The patient is going into respiratory arrest," Taub said.

"'Kay," he said, and hung up.

Cuddy stirred, and opened a bleary eye at him.

"Patient," House said, reaching for his shirt, missing the warmth of her body.

She watched him get dressed, and said sleepily, "No announcing from the balcony this time."

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "Only if you move in with me."

Cuddy's eyes widened. She should've been surprised, but she really wasn't. Gregory House did not make commitments easily, but once he did decide to, he was extremely tenacious. Stacy had said they moved in together a week after a disastrous first date. When Wilson had quit after Amber's death, she'd seen House desperate to get him back. And House had asked _her_ to move in with him…right after he'd hallucinated sleeping with her. That thought brought a painful throb to her heart, but she forced it down. "And abandon this house for your tiny apartment?" She smiled.

"The kid can sleep in the piano," House said.

"What, inside?" Cuddy joked, touched that he'd accepted her daughter.

"She should be grateful, I don't let anyone near that thing," he said, going in to kiss her quickly, which of course turned into a longer makeout session.

"Patient," Cuddy gasped when she surfaced for air.

"Right," he said, kissing her one last time. "See you."

When he left, Cuddy smiled, and hugged her pillow. Inviting him over had to be the best thing she's ever done.

--

"He did say he was coming, right?" Thirteen asked as they stood beside the patient, who was intubated by now, and spiking a temperature of 103.

"Um, his exact word was ''kay'." Taub air-quoted with his fingers. "I don't know what this means."

"'_Kay_?" Foreman asked. "_'_Kay that the patient almost died? What, he accepted it and went back to sleep?"

Then they heard a deep baritone singing,

"_I've got you under my skin,_

_I've got you deep in the heart of me_

_So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me_

_I've got you under my skin."_ House finished as he came into the room.

"My daughter almost died and he's singing _Sinatra_?" The patient's mother asked incredulously.

"Would you rather I do Britney Spears?" House asked. "You're right. I guess she is too young to appreciate Sinatra." He leaned over the girl, whose face was grossly swollen. "Yikes. Not a sight for sore eyes there. More like a sight to provoke sore eyes."

"Hey!" The patient's mother protested, and turned to Foreman. "Is he a real doctor?" She eyed House's disheveled appearance, cane, and lack of lab coat with suspicion.

"Yes," House said loudly. "And I'm a better one than _he_ is, too," he pointed to Foreman. "And I'll prove it." He turned to the girl. "Bend your knees."

The girl weakly complied, and moaned even before she got her knees at an angle.

"Joint pain," House said. "High fever. Swelling. Go ahead, Taub, I'll let you do the honors since you haven't diagnosed a case for over a month. I'm a firm believer in equal chances."

"Uh—" Taub said, flustered. He looked around at his colleagues, but they looked as blank as he did.

House's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I'm having a hard time remembering why I hired you, Taub. I'll give you a hint. It starts with an A."

"Oh. Ang—" Thirteen began, but House stopped her. He stared hard at Taub.

"Angioneurotic edema," Taub rushed.

"Good," House turned away from him. "Just so you know, you would've been fired had you not gotten that one."

Taub swallowed.

"But—" Foreman said, "She was irritable, and had problems with her period. That was why I thought it was Cushing's."

"Problems with her period?" House pretended to be shocked, looking at the mother. "Could there be something that she's not telling you?"

"She's not pregnant," Foreman said.

"She's on the pill," Thirteen realized. "It messed with her period and hormones, which accounts for the irritability."

"Bingo," House said. He made a face at the mother. "Britney Spears. _Not_ a good role model. " And to the girl: "Not to worry. Once the swelling goes down you'll be back to your pretty, _pretty_ self again. Start the treatment, I'm going home." And with that, he left.

--

"House seemed happy," Thirteen commented once they've started the treatment and were in the locker room, getting ready to go home for a few hours before the start of the next workday.

"Downright peppy," Taub said. They both glanced at Foreman, who seemed to be sulking.

"He was wearing the same clothes as he was during the day," Thirteen said thoughtfully, pulling on her jacket.

"Maybe he passed out drinking in his clothes?" Taub suggested.

"No, he was alert and clear enough to solve the case. And if he had a hangover he wouldn't be so cheerful," Thirteen said, then stopped. "Oh my god."

"You don't think—" Taub said.

They both reflected on this for a moment in silence.

"Well," Taub finally said, shutting his locker. "Either he did it, or he _thinks_ he did it."

"Let's hope it's the first one," Thirteen said. "I don't think he can handle another trip to Mayfield."

"Yeah, neither can I," Taub muttered, thinking of all of House's clinic hours he had yet to complete.

--

House went to his apartment to change and shower. He looked around, and realized that it no longer felt overwhelming and lonely. Like a monster defanged, it lost all its threatening power that had repeatedly told him, _you're going to die alone._

Now it said, _M__aybe not, after all._

Humming, he went into the bathroom.

After his shower, he reached for the towel that was hanging on the rack. As he knocked against it accidently, the metal tube made a solid sound when it should've been hollow.

Frowning, House wrapped the towel around himself, and stepped out of the tub. He pulled at the towel rack, which easily came away in his hand. He tipped it, and a little orange bottle fell into his hand, still half-full of white pills.


	15. Chapter 15

**Physician, Heal Thyself  
**

**Ch. 5**

Wilson had finished a whole entire morning's work before he realized that it was noon, and House had not come to bother him. He'd seen House's team in the clinic when he dropped by there earlier, so he knew that House didn't have a case. Which meant House should have been bored and avoiding clinic duty by looking for mischief. Yet it had been quiet all morning. _Uh oh,_ he thought. _I better go check up on him._

He walks to House's office, all sorts of scenarios playing out in his head. Maybe House was passed out on the floor. Maybe he'd stopped breathing in his chair. One couldn't blame Wilson, certainly, for fearing these things, since they all had happened to House at some point.

But he found House in his chair, doing nothing besides bouncing his ball off the wall and staring absently into space. Jazz was playing in the background.

"House?" Wilson asked. "I thought you solved your case?"

"I slept with her," House said, still staring vacantly ahead.

"What?" Wilson asked carefully. Once burnt, twice shy, he didn't want to invest his hopes again until he was absolutely certain House was sane and telling the truth.

House finally fixed his glance on Wilson. "It's true this time," he said with a rueful little smile. "You can go ask her."

Wilson sat down. "I'm inclined to believe you, since you _are_ drug-free and as mentally stable as it's possible for you to be. B-but—" Wilson spluttered, so many questions coming to mind. "When? How? And why didn't you burst in my office first thing in the morning announcing this and making lewd jokes?"

"Yesterday after work she came to my office asking me to have dinner at her house. I went, we had dinner, and had sex in the middle of _The Count of Monte Cristo,_" House said, in an almost detached voice.

"Oh-kay," Wilson said uncertainly, not sure why House isn't happier about this. "And—you left when she was sleeping?"

"No," House said. "Taub called me at 3 AM about the patient, but she was awake when I left, and I said goodbye to her." The hint of a curious smile tugged on the corner of House's lips.

"Right," Wilson said, more confused than ever. "But now you're having second thoughts?"

"Nope," House said.

"_She's_ having second thoughts?" Wilson thought back to when he'd seen Cuddy this morning. She'd looked very cheerful.

"Nope," House said.

Wilson threw up his hands and gave up. "So what's the matter?"

"Nothing," House said and suddenly stood up. "Let's go for lunch."

--

Cuddy looked up at the clock, and frowned. She'd sort-of expected House to burst into her office this morning to annoy her more than usual. But he hadn't. And she knew that House was at the hospital today, because she'd asked Thirteen. So was he avoiding her? And if so, _why?_ She thought they had left on a very good note.

It was lunchtime, and Cuddy headed for the cafeteria. Maybe she'd catch House and Wilson there.

--

Wilson watched as House bit into his Rubens sandwich. Finally he said, "House."

"Mmm?" House said, chewing noisily.

"Maybe you should go talk to her."

House didn't reply, instead washed his mouthful down with a gulp of soda.

"I don't know," Wilson said. "Call me stupid, but my impression is that it's always a good idea to talk to a girl after sleeping with her. You know, to avoid misunderstandings?"

"Maybe that's why you ended up divorced three times," House said, but without any intention behind his delivery.

Wilson looked up and saw Cuddy coming towards them. "Hey House," he said loudly so she could hear. "I just remembered, I have an appointment with a patient in five minutes. So I gotta go, ok?"

"Wha—" That got House's attention. "They're dying anyways, can't they wait til I finish my lunch?" he yelled at Wilson's fleeing backside. He turned around just as Cuddy plopped into the seat that Wilson's just vacated. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," Cuddy said, studying him. His gaze and whole posture had softened the moment he saw her. So it wasn't a problem with their relationship. That was good. Which meant that there was a problem with House himself. That was not so good. "Were you avoiding me this morning?" she asked lightly, but cutting straight to the chase.

"My understanding of the word _avoid_ has always been that it's an active process," House said. "I've just been sitting in my office the whole morning."

"You solved your case," Cuddy said. "You should be doing clinic duty."

"Taub's covered that," House said, waving a hand dismissively.

Cuddy decided to overlook this morally suspect information for now, in favor of something more important. "Right. So what have you been doing in your office all morning?"

"What's with the 20 questions?" House asked, looking annoyed. "God, you sleep with a woman for one night and they suddenly think they have to know every little thing you do."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "First of all," she said, "keep your voice down. The rumor mill in this hospital almost burnt down with excitement after your last little stunt—"

"Not my fault I'm famous," House said.

"Second of all," Cuddy continued, ignoring him, "I happen to be your boss and I have a right to know what I'm paying you to do all day."

"Oh my god," House said, like he just realized something. "If I have sex with you, and you pay me, does that make me your gigolo?"

Cuddy couldn't hold back a smile. "Yeah, I guess so," she said. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not at all," House said with a devilish smile that almost made her melt, and stood up. "In fact, if you want to find a janitor's closet right now…I'm sure Cameron and Chase will be able to recommend us some good ones—"

She chuckled. "No thanks, House," she stood up as well, and brushed very close to him as she walked past him. "Save it for tonight," she breathed.

And she walked away with an extra sashay in her step, and a smile on her lips knowing he was watching.

--

House was back at his desk in his office, having successfully shaken Wilson and Cuddy off his trail, at least temporarily. He opened the locked drawer of his desk and contemplated the bottle of Vicodin lying inside.

He hadn't taken any—yet. Although he wanted a pill, it was in the same way one would want a candy bar. He didn't _need_ it. After last night with Cuddy, his leg pain had diminished dramatically, confirming his suspicion that it was a mood-related thing.

He'd spent the morning, first trying to figure out why he didn't remember the bottle inside the towel rack bar. He must have hidden it long ago, maybe as early as the period right after the Tritter incident, when he had _never_ wanted to go through something as horrible as withdrawal again.

To be honest, House had randomly hidden so many bottles over the years, half of the time under an intoxicated state, that even he had lost track of his hiding-places. And obviously Wilson and Cuddy had missed it in their sweep. It was amazing already, how they had gotten almost every bottle. One would have to literally taken the apartment apart plank by plank to be that thorough.

The next question was, _what are you going to do with it?_ He knew he should flush it down the toilet. He knew he should tell Cuddy or Wilson. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Hence the reason he'd avoided (well, not actively, but still _avoiding_) them both all morning.

So many times during his conversation with them, he'd wanted to tell them. But what could he say? _"Hey so funniest thing, I found a bottle of Vicodin—get this—hidden inside my towel rack bar this morning! Weird, eh? Guess you missed one! Ha ha!"_

First off, it was a little humiliating to admit just to what extent he secreted his drugs, like some sort of a furtive squirrel. Second of all, _what if he needed it?_ So he didn't need it right now. But what if, down the road, the pain got so bad that he couldn't function anymore without it? It wasn't like he was going to be in a good mood 24/7 from now on, even _if_ he was sleeping with Cuddy. The pain was going to come back, full force, and—as big of a coward as he felt—he was afraid of it.

House stared hard at the little orange bottle lying so innocently in his drawer. For a second, House thought he saw it turn into a tube of lipstick. He blinked, and it was gone. He immediately slammed the drawer shut violently, hand shaking slightly.

He stared at the closed drawer for a while. Then grabbing his cane and his iPod, he headed down the elevator to the hospital exercise room.


	16. Chapter 16

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

_Yay I graduated high school! And we've reached more than 300 reviews! You guys are amazing!

* * *

_

**Ch. 6**

When five o'clock rolled around again, and Cuddy was packing up to leave, she reflected that she had seen very little of House today. What the heck was he up to?

She decided to look for him in his office, but he wasn't there. Feeling a little confused, she headed for the elevator to go back down, and just as she reached to push the button, the door opened.

She stepped back in surprise. House stepped out the elevator, wearing t-shirt and shorts that were soaked through with sweat. He was breathing heavily.

"Oh," she said.

House evidently did not expect to see her there, and he looked quite uncomfortable. "I just got back from an orgy session with several of the nurses," he said quickly.

"Mhm," she said, folding her arms. "What were you doing, House?"

He didn't answer, and instead brushed past her to go to his office. She followed. She noticed that he was gritting his teeth and rubbing his leg.

"Are you in pain?" She exclaimed. _Stupid question, _she immediately chastised herself. But she couldn't help it; she was so surprised.

"Kind of hard _not_ to be in pain when you've just ran on the treadmill for two hours," he snapped. His eyes flicked to his desk drawer quickly.

"House," she said concernedly, going over to him. "Are you trying to rehabilitate your leg muscle on your own?"

"Yes," he said shortly. "Don't need some therapist breathing down my neck." He sank down on his chair with a groan and closed his eyes.

Cuddy was lost for words. She was beyond excited that House was doing something to get better, but she knew he needed help. He couldn't do this on his own, _nobody _could.

"Right," she said matter-of-factly, recognizing that House did not need a lecture at the moment. "Let's get you on some pain meds, and we can go home and figure this out."

"No!" House snapped. Then speaking in a calmer voice, "No meds."

"House, are you sure?" she asked, looking into his eyes, trying to fathom his thoughts.

He abruptly looked away. "Yeah."

"You are not going to get addicted again," Cuddy stated, thinking she knew what this was about.

His eyes flicked to his drawer again. "That's what you think."

Cuddy's eyes narrowed. She went over and opened the drawer, which was unlocked. She widened her eyes when she saw the bottle of Vicodin.

"Did you take any, House?" She held up the bottle, speaking in a controlled voice.

"If I did, I wouldn't be in pain now, would I?" House growled. Cuddy believed him. Even though House was not above lying, his voice was too raw right now to be anything other than truthful.

"Why do you have this?" She asked, her tone sympathetic, not accusing.

House closed his eyes again, and tilted his head back. "I found it hidden inside the towel rack bar in my bathroom," he admitted, not wanting to see the look of disappointment on Cuddy's face.

"House," Cuddy said, going over to sit beside him. "I'm sorry."

"What the hell are you sorry for?" House asked in surprise, his eyes flying open.

"Sorry that Wilson and I missed it, and you had to go through…" she trailed off, not knowing the right word.

"The temptation?" House supplied for her. "Yeah, I was tempted. And I'm _going _to be tempted every time I see Vicodin or any other pain medication. Good thing I work in a hospital." His tone was bitter as the pills she held in her hand.

"House…" Cuddy knew that House hated this, hated being weak and not in control of himself.

"I am—was—am—an addict, Cuddy," House said, screwing his eyes shut as he wavered between tenses. "I'm like an AA member working in a liquor store. Nothing you can do about it."

"_Was_," Cuddy stated firmly. "And you're in pain, it's only natural you would want—"

"Stop making excuses for me," House said quietly, standing up with effort. "I've been doing that myself my whole life."

Cuddy nodded. She grabbed House's backpack for him. "Let's go."

"Go where?" House asked.

Cuddy turned to him, smiling. "You're moving in, remember?"

--

They first drove to House's apartment to get a few things. They stood together in the bathroom, in front of the toilet.

She held the bottle of Vicodin out for him to flush.

"It's not a fucking pet goldfish," House snapped, refusing to take it.

"House," Cuddy tried to explain, "if _you_ do it—"

"I know you're all about the self empowerment," House said. "The whole I'm-above-the-drug kind of thing. But this isn't therapy, so just flush it and get the damn thing over with."

Cuddy sighed, and conceded. She unceremoniously dumped the contents of the bottle into the toilet and turned the handle. She looked over at House. His face was expressionless as the white pills, his saviors and his demons, went around and around before disappearing down the drain to be dissolved in the sewage waters.

They stood together in silence, Cuddy a bit nervous.

"Lucky rats," House finally said, wistfully.

Cuddy turned to him. He was looking at her, a hint of a rueful smile on his face. She laughed aloud in relief, and wrapped her arms around him.

He held her, resting his chin on the top of her head, smelling the scent of her hair. "Can my piano come, mommy?"

She laughed, and let go of him. "Yes, your piano can come. But it'll have to wait a while. And unless you want to wait here with it..." she trailed off as she turned to leave, giving a seductive smile over her shoulder.

"No, it'll be good on its own," House said quickly, following her, smiling.

--

House took a shower while Cuddy went to take care of Rachel. When he came out wrapped in a towel, she was rocking the baby in her arms, walking up and down the hallway to sooth her.

"How's your pain?" Cuddy asked when she saw him.

"It's better," he said, looking at her holding the baby.

"Why are you smiling?" Cuddy asked suspiciously.

"You look like a mother," House said simply.

Cuddy opened her mouth in surprise. Before she could reply, though, he disappeared into the bedroom to change. A huge smile spread over her face.

* * *

_Please review!_


	17. Chapter 17

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

**Ch. 7**

"Hey," Cuddy said.

"Hey," House replied, looking up to see her standing in the doorway of his office. He set aside the medical journal he was reading. "What brings the Dean of Medicine to visit? Another booty call?"

She walked over and dropped a brochure on his desk, and bit her lip anxiously as he picked it up to read it.

"Physiotherapy," he said, and put it down. "Cuddy, I told you, I don't need—"

"House, listen to me," Cuddy interrupted. "I am very happy that you're rehabilitating your leg muscle. But you know what's going to happen if you do this on your own. You're going to be in an immense amount of pain, and you're going to want to quit. You need a structured regimen if you want to succeed."

House gave her a nod. "Thanks for the speech," he said, "but I want to do this on my own."

"You're afraid of failure," Cuddy realized. "Or rather, you're afraid of people's knowledge of your failure. You don't want to be in a program because if you fail, then people will know about it. You didn't even want to tell _me_ because if only _you_ knew about it, at least it'll spare you the humiliation."

House said nothing.

"Well you know what?" Cuddy said, pushing the brochure in front of him. "People knowing about it is a good thing, because it'll give you the pressure to succeed. I knew you were going to be like this, so I already signed you up," she said with a smug smile.

House stared at her. "You evil, controlling woman," he exclaimed.

She smiled. "I thought you liked that about me."

"Only in bed," House said.

As Cuddy turned to leave, House said quietly, "You know I don't…always live up to expectations."

She turned to face him. He was looking up at her, almost pleadingly. She walked over around the desk to stand in front of him. "I don't have expectations, Greg," she said softly. "I don't want to change you. I just want us to—work together—so _you_ can have what you've always wanted. But I will _always_ accept you the way you are," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

When she pulled away, House grabbed her wrist. Cuddy supposed she should've been warned by the way his eyes glinted mischievously. With a yank of her wrist, he landed her solidly in his lap. Cuddy squealed as she found herself inches from House's face, a squeal that was swallowed as he leaned in.

"You better hope nobody walks in," he whispered as he captured her lips with his.

--

Wilson glanced up as House walked in, and pretended to blink in astonishment. "Wow. House in my office? Now that's a sight I haven't seen in more than a month."

"I knew you missed me, Jimmy," House grinned, sitting down in the chair in front of Wilson's desk.

A heavy silence suddenly descended as they met each others' eyes, and both remembered the last time House was in this office. The dark shadow of Mayfield, it seemed, would always loom over them.

"I moved in with Cuddy," House said, breaking the silence.

"Wow," Wilson spluttered. "That…was fast."

"Too fast?" House asked reflectively.

Wilson thought for a while. "No, I don't think so. You guys have been arguing for twenty years. That is a solid basis for a relationship right there. "

"One you wished you had with all your ex-wives, I'm sure," House said.

Wilson smiled. "Yeah…"

"Are you still seeing that nurse from the psychiatric hospital?" House asked suddenly.

"No, I'm not," Wilson said. "And I'm surprised you didn't ask me about it when you were there. I was half-expecting you to."

"I had other things on my plate then," House said pointedly.

"Right."

"But now…" House said cheerfully, "I had nothing better to do than phone her up and have a little chat."

"_What?_" Wilson cried. He supposed he should be used to House's invasion of privacy by now, but this…was ridiculous. "House, I broke up with her! Why on earth would you want to talk to her?"

"Your brother," House said bluntly.

That shut Wilson up. He looked at House with widened eyes.

"He doesn't have schizophrenia," House said.

"What are you talking about?" Wilson said. "Of course he does…"

"He has _symptoms_ of schizophrenia," House said, deadly serious now. "Which medication, as you told me, did little to help. I was reading a medical journal, and it talked about a case in Japan where a man diagnosed with schizophrenia actually had congenital lesions on his brain."

"Oh my god…" Wilson whispered.

"And of course, your brother was diagnosed in the early eighties, when MRI was available but still not widely used, especially for psychological disorders. So of course, nobody thought to look at his brain…and afterwards people just assumed he had the usual fluid-filled cavities of a normal schizophrenic."

Wilson couldn't speak. He hardly believed what he was hearing.

"I phoned up your ex-girlfriend…said you wanted a full workup of your brother's brain. Apparently the rumors _are_ true, girls still love you even when you break up with them," he smirked at Wilson.

"What did you find?" Wilson asked, knowing the answer.

"Your brother," House said, whipping out MRI images and laying them on the desk, "has bilateral temporal arachnoid cysts, and a left temporal arachnoid cyst among others. He was born with them."

Wilson moved his fingers over the spots on the MRI of his brother's brain, speechless. After a long while, he looked up at House with hopeful eyes. "So if we operate…"

"It'll be a risky procedure," House said, standing up. "But yes. He could be a normal, functioning human being again."

Wilson sat, overwhelmed with the thought that he'd finally have his brother back. "Thank you," he said to House with all the feeling he could muster.

"Oh no problem, Jimmy," House held a hand to his heart. "I've seen the light, remember?" He said, in an imitation of a religious convert. "I've regained my life, it is my duty to help others regain theirs and...crap like that."

Wilson smiled. "Right. You just wanted to prove others wrong, as usual."

House turned at the door and shrugged. "Yeah, pretty much. Good luck, Wilson," he said and left.

Wilson sat there with the MRI images, astonished at House's act of kindness, and reflected that putting up with his crap for this many years was worth this moment.


	18. Chapter 18

**Physician, Heal Thyself**

**Ch. 8**

"Paracetamol," House said loudly and angrily. "Tylenol!"

"House, calm down—" Cuddy said.

"They gave me fucking _Tylenol!_" House said, ignoring her. "And not even T3, the good stuff!"

"T3 is an opioid, they could hardly have given it to you—"

"You might as well give Advil to someone who's been shot in the head!"

"House, sit down!" Cuddy yelled.

House glared at her, but finally shut up and sat down on the couch in her office, rubbing his leg.

"Look," Cuddy said. "I know you're in pain after the physiotherapy. But anything stronger crosses into the narcotics category and we can't do that after your detox. Besides," she joked weakly, "Vicodin's hydrocodone and paracetamol, so you'll be getting half of it, at least."

"Yeah, the Garfunkel, not the Simon," House said.

" Also, now that you're over your addiction and your pain is normal—"

"_Normal_," House snorted.

"Normal as in _not drug dependent_," Cuddy stated firmly. "There is a good chance that regular painkillers will relieve your pain. The important thing is that you _believe_ it will."

"The placebo effect," House scoffed. "Now _that_ I can put my faith in."

"Actually," Cuddy said. "Someone who had cancer was cured with a painkiller, so no reason it can't relieve leg muscle pain."

"You should tell Wilson that," House said. "He'd be pleased at being put out of a job." He thought for a second. "No, really, he would be."

"House," Cuddy said patiently. "You have a very well developed sense of skepticism, I know. But you need to believe that paracetamol will work just as well."

"What I _need_ is morphine," House grumbled.

"Look, it's almost five," Cuddy said, glancing at the clock. "Why don't we go home and I'll massage your leg for you."

House cheered up immediately. "I could live with that."

"And good news," Cuddy said over her shoulder as she exited the office. "They delivered your piano."

"Yes! Piano sex!" House grinned, limping after her.

--

However, when they got to Cuddy's house, they were confronted by a stressed-out nanny. Apparently Rachel was sick and was crying nonstop.

"Thank you, Teresa," Cuddy said to the nanny. "I'll take over from here."

The nanny nodded thankfully, kissed the baby's head, and left rather quickly.

House raised an eyebrow at the crying baby in Cuddy's arms. "Need this?" He took out the bottle of Tylenol and rattled it in front of Rachel's face. "Go ahead, take it. I really don't mind."

Cuddy frowned disapprovingly. "Can you get the Infant Advil from the medicine cabinet? And some warm water?"

"What am I, the substitute nanny?" House said before he thought better of it.

Cuddy glared at him. "Fine," she said, thrusting the baby at him. "I'll go get it."

House was shocked at the brawling baby being thrust into his arms, but he managed not to drop her. "Oh Jesus," he muttered, and joggled it awkwardly. "Alright. Don't cry. I hate crying women." He remembered that the last time he held the baby, it had thrown up on him. That was not promising.

The baby did not oblige him, and wailed louder than ever.

"Okay," he looked around for inspiration, and suddenly saw the newly delivered piano standing proudly in the living room. He limped over, and raised the lid with one hand. Then he sat down on the bench, and cradling the baby in one arm, he started playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata with the other hand.

At first, one couldn't even hear the notes over the baby's wailing. But slowly, the crying dropped in decibels and the flowing notes became more audible.

Cuddy came into the living room, surprised at the sight of House soothing the baby with music. She quietly went over to them, and took the now-sniffling baby out of House's arms. House kept playing, now with both hands. The tune had shifted into Debussy's "Clair de Lune".

She fed Rachel the infant drops and some warm water, and rocked her while House played. Rachel, calmed by the music and feeling better with the medicine in her, began to blink sleepily and drift off to sleep.

When Rachel was asleep, Cuddy quietly went to put her in her crib, making sure the baby monitor was turned on so they could hear if she woke up. Then she padded back into the living room, where House was still playing with his eyes closed.

It was like no music Cuddy had ever heard before. "Clair de Lune" had melded into Jewish traditional music, and now it was an adaptation of "You Can't Always Get What You Want". He changed songs seamlessly, without a break in between, so it was all one long, beautiful melody.

Cuddy realized that he had just skillfully molded his music to fit her entire life.

She sat beside him on the bench. The music had now turned into "Unchained Melody" from the movie Ghost. The notes were achingly longing, as Cuddy realized that is what he felt about her. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

He took one arm and wrapped it around her waist, as he finished the song with one hand. The last tinkling note reverberated through the house in the silence that ensued. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"Thank you," she mumbled into the crook of his neck.

He turned his head as she raised his face to his. Her grey tinted blue eyes looked into his clear cerulean ones before his mouth descended on hers, and they kissed slowly in the last of the day's sunlight.

"Does your leg still hurt?" she murmured against his lips.

"Yes," he said, very definitely. Somehow she knew he'd say "yes" no matter what the case was.

She smiled and started kissing him again, rubbing a hand up and down his thigh. He groaned and shifted so they were entirely facing each other, as one hand got tangled in her hair and the other moved down to unbutton the front of her blouse.

_I need your love_

_I need your love_

_Godspeed your love to me._

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_A/N: I got the Simon and Garfunkel joke from Monk, btw. Great show. If you like House, I think you'd like Monk. And the next chapter will most likely be the last. Thanks to all who reviewed!_


	19. Chapter 19

**Physician, Heal Thyself  
**

**Ch. 9**

_Last chapter!! I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, especially those who reviewed every chapter--you know who you are, THANK YOU! You guys have been amazingly kind. I hoped you enjoyed it as much as I did. Please leave an exit review to tell me your thoughts!

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_

House and Cuddy lay in each others' arms, moonlight through the window softly outlining their bodies and the tangled sheets around them. House nuzzled Cuddy's neck, and thought, _why did it take me twenty years to do this again?_

Then he had a flash of insight. He sat up suddenly. "I know where it's from!" He crowed triumphantly.

Cuddy looked up at him, bewildered. "What?"

"How I knew you audited my class," House said.

Cuddy sat up too, gathering the sheets around her and laying her head against the headboard. "You're still on about that?" She asked wearily. Honestly, that man. He couldn't stop thinking and analyzing even after amazing sex? But Cuddy knew inside that this was what she loved most about him. "All right, House. How didyou know that I audited your class _twenty years ago,_ even though I have no idea why it's so important to you?"

"I like how you call me House in bed," he said. "It's sexy."

Cuddy huffed in frustration. "I'm going back to sleep if you don't—"

"You told me," House interrupted, "twenty years ago."

"Did I?" Cuddy frowned. "I don't remember—"

"Twenty years ago," House said loudly, in the tones of a storyteller, "there was a little girl…" he glanced sideways at Cuddy slyly, to see if she had an issue with being called _little._ But Cuddy refused to talk for fear of prolonging his monologue longer than it had to be. So he went on. "…a little girl who was curious about a charming and extremely good looking legend on campus."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"So she decided to audit the endocrinology class of that legend. And did not happen to inform the legend of this fact, even after they began to talk, and he began to cheat off her tests, _a fact she was fully aware of, by the way_," House said pointedly. "She _let_ him cheat because she was infatuated with the said legend."

Cuddy raised her eyebrows at him, and gave him a fake smile.

"And the legend was deluded into thinking that she was older than she really was," House continued. "And because she was hot, and…not annoying to talk to," he said in a softer voice, "he started hanging out with her more often."

Cuddy's eyes were wider and softer now, as she was brought back to the sun-filled early days of their relationship.

"One night, the day before he left Michigan…they had sex," House said quietly, raising his hand to gently trace the contour of her cheek in the dark. "Damn good sex," he added.

Cuddy chuckled.

"And the little girl evidently had a huge guilt complex even then," House said, "because she confessed that she wasn't really in his class, that she was just auditing it. But in addition to having a guilt complex, she happened to also be a sneaky bitch," he said, smiling at her, "because she whispered it after he had fallen asleep after the sex. And only his subconscious had heard her. So in this way, she satisfied her conscience and the legend did not remember anything…until now," he finished.

Cuddy brought her hands together and clapped slowly. "Well done," she said. "You've figured out my diabolical plan. It only took you twenty years."

"As I always say…" House said, tangling his fingers in her curls and bringing her face closer to kiss her, "better late than never."

It was as though floodgates in her heart had opened that moment, because she was suddenly drowned in a wave of powerful emotion. There was no doubt in her mind now: she did not just _want_ Gregory House—she loved him, without reserve, without doubts. She never wanted any other man but him, for as long as she lived.

"Any other secrets you'd like to share?" House murmured, moving to trail kisses on her neck.

"I have one," she said, and flipped over to straddle him. She placed kisses along his jawline up to his ear, where she whispered, "Gregory House…I love you."

He pulled back slightly, and for a second Cuddy was scared that he was going to freak out, or that he didn't feel the same way. But he was smiling. "Hate to break it to you…but that's not a secret," he said.

"And that's not the proper response," she said, playfully smacking him on the arm.

"You want the proper response?" House asked with a twinkle in his eye. In sudden movement, he flipped her over so that she was on the bottom. "Lisa Cuddy…" he said, dropping a kiss on her sternum, "I love you," he murmured against her lips before giving her a long, soul-searing kiss. Then he pulled back to look at her in the eyes with a lopsided grin. "That good enough?"

She pulled his head down for another kiss. "Perfect."

But just as things were heating up again, she was suddenly besieged by a horrible thought. She pulled back and buried her head in his chest, trying to shake off her misgivings.

"What's wrong?" House asked, concern evident in his voice.

"Are we moving too fast?" She asked, her voice muffled in his chest. She hated to ruin the moment, but her paranoid and obsessive self wouldn't let this go.

"Hmm," House said thoughtfully. "Could you possibly be talking about the fact that you jumped me the day I got back to work, we moved in a day later, and now we're professing our love to each other?"

"Yes," she mumbled, not daring to look up at him.

"Hey." House pulled back slightly, and tipped her chin up so their eyes could meet. "I don't think we moved fast enough," he said honestly.

Cuddy looked up into his clear blue eyes, normally icy, hard, and analytical. Now they were none of those things; instead, they were tender and full of love. It took her breath away like nothing else to know that these feelings were directed at _her,_ and her only.

She thought back to all the years that they had known each other. First Stacy, then the infraction, then her being his boss…even after the kiss they shared when she had lost Joy, they danced around the issue and avoided it. It was not until House had his delusion that he finally admitted to himself that he was in love with her. And it wasn't until she'd _discovered _that he had a delusion that she finally realized that he wasn't the unfeeling bastard he seemed. She cringed at all the cruel things she said to him when he announced to the whole hospital that he had slept with her. She had thought it was just another prank to undermine her authority and to make fun of her feelings. _People who get close to you get hurt…It's a good thing this happened, because it made me realize that I could never have a relationship with you…_

But she was wrong. She knew that now. House was capable of deep attachment and loyalty, if only she had let him prove it to her. With him, you had to see the rude remarks for what they really are—an attempt at concealing emotion, and to look past them for the wounded, but nevertheless beautiful soul inside.

Although the delusion was a horrible thing to happen, in the end it turned out to be the catalyst they needed. It was like a bomb that shocked them both out of their self-pitying shells.

Maybe it was true…things did always happen for a reason.

House appeared to be thinking the same thing as her. He absentmindedly tucked a curl behind her ear. "All this time we lost…" he whispered, almost to himself.

Cuddy smiled brightly at him. "Better late than never," she echoed, kissing him deeply.


End file.
